183
Santa Fe Crazy
By
Ron Hutchison
Prologue
I set my ambitious plan into motion the first day I arrived in Santa Fe, renting a one- bedroom apartment two blocks off the Plaza. My landlord, an elderly Latino gentleman by the name of Manuel Diaz, attributed the green stains in the bathtub to the previous tenant, a landscape artist who had raised her iguana there.
If you’ve never been to Santa Fe, you really need to go. There’s a good reason why it’s called “The City Different.” The people and its history are, well, quirky. I can attest to that after spending one glorious, but insane, summer there.
The famous Santa Fe Plaza is a square block of trees, grass, and red brick sidewalks. The stone monument rising from its center always reminded me of a giant phallic symbol. According to a plaque on the monument, it was erected (pun intended) after the Civil War to honor Union soldiers who died in several New Mexico battles. (Civil War battles in New Mexico—who knew?)
The north side of the Plaza is home to Native Americans wearing Nike T-shirts who sell their arts and crafts from blankets spread out on the sidewalk. Turquoise and silver jewelry. Glass beads. Pottery. Leather belts. And, of course, arrowheads. What would a Native American crafts market be without arrowheads, right? (More about that later.)
The original Santa Fe extends for many square blocks around the center of town and is crisscrossed by narrow streets that funnel into the Plaza. Will Rogers once said, “Whoever designed the streets in Santa Fe must have been drunk and riding backwards on a mule.” The truth is, Santa Fe is a very old town, and most of the major streets were laid out hundreds of years ago.
I established a rigid routine a few days after arriving in Santa Fe in early April. I would walk from my apartment to the Plaza early each morning just as the Native Americans were setting up shop. Mingling. It was part of my plan to meet a wealthy Santa Fe widow. Although I’m not much for coffee—it does a bang-up job of staining teeth—my plan called for three cups each morning starting at the Café Paris, a charming little diner located two blocks west of the Plaza.
My next caffeine stop was the Ore House, a world-renowned restaurant overlooking the Plaza where the presence of Julia Roberts or any Hollywood celebrity is not uncommon. I ended
my coffee rounds at a place called the French Pastry Shop, a small adjunct to La Fonda Hotel where they actually speak French.
About mid morning each day I would visit the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, a block north of the Plaza on Johnson Street. The museum houses a permanent collect of O’Keeffe’s art.
From there I would routinely walk to the Institute of American Indian Arts, a couple blocks east of the Plaza and right across the street from the famed St. Francis Cathedral.
My lunch schedule varied. Most days I would eat at the La Fonda Hotel, catty corner from the Plaza on the corner of Old Santa Fe Trail and San Francisco Street. The hotel dates back to the days before the cattle drives. Tile floors. Beamed ceilings. A great deal of history.
But for all my efforts, my grandiose plan to meet a wealthy Santa Fe widow was bearing little fruit.
All that was soon to change.
1
I met George Bad Toe the night of May 2 in the bar of the La Fonda Hotel. I distinctly remember the date because it would have been my 20th wedding anniversary.
George Bad Toe was a fine-looking man with skin the color of mahogany and long black hair that fell to his shoulders. He was big, standing about six-three and weighing maybe two-thirty. He walked with a slight limp. (No, I never asked him. I figured if he wanted me to know he’d tell me. He never did.)
Although George’s voice sounded like the deep rumble of distant thunder and could be quite intimidating, he had kind eyes, the product of a Navajo father and a Chinese mother.
The night I met him he was wearing a dark suit and one of those turquoise bolo ties so popular in Santa Fe. Even though he was missing an upper first premolar, he had a very prosperous look about him. He was drinking a Mexican beer called Negra Modelo. (That’s Black Model in Spanish.)
George was a friendly sort and we struck up a conversation almost immediately, mostly small talk. He explained his Navajo-Chinese heritage, and after some time he gave me a short course in the Santa Fe social hierarchy.
“Been here long?” he asked. “You look like you just stepped off the boat.”
I laughed. “Does it show?”
George nodded and said, “Everyone in Santa Fe falls into a pecking order. When did you arrive?”
“About a month ago.”
“A Newcomer.”
“I suppose. Moved from Decatur, Illinois. I was a dentist.”
“Plan to set up practice?”
“No.”
“Retired?”
“Semi retired.” I had only known George Bad Toe for a few minutes, but for some reason I wanted very much to divulge my daring plan to him. Although he had a disarming manner, I managed to keep my mouth shut, at least for the moment.
“Have you recovered from culture shock?” he asked.
“I’m adapting. Santa Fe certainly has its own personality.”
“You realize that Newcomers are at the bottom of the Santa Fe social ladder,” George said with a sly grin, as if he took great pleasure in revealing this fact to me.
“How so?”
“Locals have no tolerance for Newcomers,” he said. “You’ll have to fight like hell to establish your own territory.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Who’s at the top?”
“Those goddamn Europeans.” I could hear the resentment in his voice.
I waved the bartender over and ordered another piña colada, and then turned back to George Bad Toe. “Who’s next in your Santa Fe pecking order?” I was amused by it all.
“American Caucasians.”
“Like me,” I said. “If I wasn’t a Newcomer, that is.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then who?”
“Indians.”
In a polite tone I said, “You mean Native Americans?”
“No, I mean Indians. We can’t seem to climb out of third place.” He sipped his Negra Modelo, and then said, “I never cared much for that Native American crap. Don’t remember anyone asking George Bad Toe what he wanted to be called.”
I nodded my understanding.
“Then you have your Latinos, your Asians, and next to last your Mojados.”
“Mojados?”
“Wetbacks.”
“Where do Blacks fall?”
“You mean African Americans?”
“Yes, African Americans.”
“Not a dozen in town.”
“No kidding?”
“Can’t say why.”
“Then Newcomers are lower than Mojados?”
“Absolutely.”
“That doesn’t seem quite fair,” I protested. “Illegal aliens should be at the bottom.”
George Bad Toe gave me a funny little smile. “Why? This was once their country. You’re the illegal alien in Santa Fe, my Illinois friend.”
I forced a thin laugh. “I suppose.”
“Some Mexican nationals would like to reclaim Santa Fe for Mexico.”
It sounded preposterous. “No.”
“I’m dying if I’m lying.”
I couldn’t help but notice the huge diamond ring George was wearing. It was at least five or six carats. When he caught me snatching a glimpse, he said simply, “Yep, it’s real.”
I finished my piña colada and waved at the bartender, a man by the name of Sam Baca who sported a fine handlebar mustache.
“I’d take it easy on the hooch,” George said. “We’re at altitude. One drink here is equal to two drinks at sea level.”
I said I’d remember, and then asked him how he made a living.
“Manufacturing.”
“What do you make?”
“You name it, I’ll make it.”
He was intentionally vague and I left it at that.
We continued our conversation, but like I said, it was mostly small talk, and in a few minutes the big Navajo-Chinaman climbed down off his barstool. He swallowed up my hand in his own. “Nice to have made your acquaintance, Howard Spoon. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“I look forward to it,” I replied pleasantly.
George paid his tab, and then shouldered his way through the standing-room-only crowd at the bar and slipped out a side door leading to the street.
I glanced down at his empty bottle of Negra Modelo. A fifty-dollar bill was tucked neatly beneath it.
Sam Baca scooped it up.
2
I had finished a late dinner at Fabio’s Seafood & Grill, a classy little restaurant several blocks west of the Plaza, and was browsing through the personals of the Santa Fe Scene. (The Scene is a so-called “alternative newspapers.” It publishes those disgusting ads for gay men and lesbians. I didn’t have anything against people who engaged in deviant sexual behavior, I just wished they weren’t so open about it.)
Although most of the Scene was devoted to local entertainment—and Santa Fe certainly has its share—one page was dedicated to a dating service called People to People. It read like this:
PEOPLE TO PEOPLE.
If you’re tired of winks, flirts, and other patronizing bullshit you find at
any of the online dating sites, give our PTP Page a try. It’s real people
talking to real people, not one impersonal PC jabbering to another.
Like I said, everything in Santa Fe is a little different, and the People to People page reflected this uniqueness.
The Scene also ran personals for non-gay people. One jumped off the page at me:
LOOKING FOR MR. RIGHT - Tall, smart, attractive, financially secure widow. I have everything I want except a lifelong companion. Let’s travel the world together. 40+. N/S. N/D. N/D.
A Santa Fe telephone number and the widow’s personal access code were listed at the end of the ad copy.
I paid the waiter and walked briskly back to my apartment, the newspaper tucked under my arm. I immediately called the number, and then punched in the four-digit access code that allowed me to hear the ad, spoken by the “financially secure widow” herself.
Her voice was sexy. The words slipped off her tongue like warm syrup, and if she was over 40, it didn’t register in her silky inflection. Her telephone message repeated what she had said in her newspaper ad. She was attractive, smart, cultured, and financially secure. (You may be wondering why I didn’t join one of those online dating sites. Two reasons: 1.) I didn’t own a computer at the time—one did come into my life later; 2.) Even if I owned a computer, I’m not so sure I’d have posted an ad and photo—it’s that photo thing that worried me. I am not what you would describe as the Dashing Dentist.)
“If you’re interested,” she concluded, “please leave a reply at the beep.”
I was very interested, but when the beep sounded my brain froze.
I quickly hung up, and then dug around the kitchen drawer until I found a pen and paper. I wanted my reply to be inspiring. I would write it first, and then practice speaking it. Nothing would be left to chance. I hadn’t moved from Decatur to Santa Fe to enjoy the scenery. A little rehearsal couldn’t hurt.
Four rewrites and an hour of rehearsal later I listened for the beep again, and then began my sales pitch: “Hello, my name is Howard Spoon and I’m new in Santa Fe. I was most impressed with your ad. Attractive. Smart. Cultured. Financially secure. I think you may be the woman I’ve searched for all my life. I was brought up in a strict Midwestern family and I don’t smoke, do drugs, or drink. I’m 39,” I said, subtracting six years, “and stand about six feet tall.” (The definitive word here is about six feet tall. To my way of thinking, 5-8 is about six feet.) “I have thick brown hair,” I said, lying about the thick, “and if you don’t mind me sounding too egotistical, my friends say I closely resemble the late President John Kennedy.”
I gave her my cell phone number and explained the Illinois area code. “As I said, I’ve just moved here from Illinois. You can call me T.D.H. Tall, dark, and handsome.” I threw in a rehearsed laugh. “I look forward to your call. Let’s travel the world together.”
I hung up.
I was sweating bullets.
***
I was making my coffee rounds the next morning when she called. (I intentionally leave my cell phone off because I’m not always prepared for what a caller might say. I make it a habit of returning calls. It gives me time to think through my response. I’ve always done it that way. I’m sure it represents a lack of confidence.)
My voice-mail took her message, and I sat on a bench in the Plaza listening to it. I recognized her silky voice at once:
“Hello there, T.D.H., I received your message loud and clear. Are you the man of my dreams? I’ve looked high and low for you for quite some time. I think a tryst is in order. What do you think? Oh, I can tell by the expression on that beautiful J.F.K. face that you’re as anxious to meet me as I am to meet you. Here’s the plan. Let’s rendezvous at the Camel Rock Casino north of Santa Fe this Saturday night at nine. No, make it nine-thirty. Stop at a flower shop on your way to the casino and pick up a rose. Wear the rose in the lapel of your suit, then I’ll be able to recognize you. Poor dear, you won’t be able to recognize me, but we are playing by my rules, aren’t we? See you Saturday. I’m getting goose bumps, how about you?”
I was.
3
I stopped at Payne’s Florists and bought a single rose on my way out of Santa Fe that Saturday night, and then drove to the Camel Rock Casino, 10 miles north of town on Highway 285. I parked, stuck the rose in my lapel, and pushed through the glass doors of the casino. I was feeling surprisingly self-confident.
The Camel Rock Casino had about every game of chance a person could wish for—cards and dice and a few games I had never heard of—and was enlivened by the clang and clatter of hundreds of slot machines.
I spotted her immediately. She was standing by the waterfall in the lobby. She wasn’t that much to look at—nothing like her silky phone voice—but she did have a fine set of teeth, and I could see from the tilt of her lateral incisors that they were her own. She was wearing a blue, low-cut dress that presented what I thought was an embarrassing view of deep cleavage. I caught her eye, and she smiled and regarded my rose.
“Roses. I love roses,” she said to me in the casual tone of two old friends talking.
Her voice sounded different from the one on the phone, but nonetheless I blurted, “A rose by any other name is still a rose.” It sounded like something a schoolboy might say to his senior prom date.
“I’ve heard that said. Stone Temple Pilots?”
“What?”
“The Stone Temple Pilots. Their lyrics are awesome.”
“No, Shakespeare, I think.” Then I exclaimed, “I’m T.D.H. Tall, dark, and handsome.” I must have been on speed-dial because the words tumbled out of my mouth much too fast.
“Congratulations,” she said. “I’m Ruth. Are we looking for a little action tonight, T.D.H?”
“Of course.” I tried to pull myself up to six feet.
“And just what kind of action did you have in mind?”
My collar began to tighten. “I’ll allow you decide.”
She smiled and took my hand. “Let’s go where we can talk.”
Ruth led me through the glass doors and outside to the parking lot where we stopped at the rear of a Ford camper. It was rusty and covered with peeling decals of deer and duck.
“It’s a lovely night,” I said, trying to make conversation. “What exactly—”
“Seventy-five for a fuck, 50 for a blow job. I’ll jerk you off for 30 and let you feel my tits for another 10.”
To say I was startled would be like saying the sinking of the Titanic was an unfortunate accident.
“What?”
She reached down and rubbed my crotch, speaking baby talk. “Let Ruthie make it all better.”
“What?”
“I said, Let Ruthie make it all better.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you, sweet pea. I’m Ruth.” She gave my spongy Yogi Bear a painful squeeze through my trousers. She was smiling like she’d just won the New Mexico lottery.
“Lady, that hurts!” (It really did.)
She laughed like some teenager girl. “Let Ruthie kiss it and make it well,” she said, still baby-talking me.
“I’m fine.”
“We a little short of cash?” she asked. “Did we lose all our money to those bad men at the stud poker table?”
Ruth had me pinned against the Ford camper and was now gently stroking my deflated Yogi Bear. With her free hand she reached up and opened the back door to the camper.
“Are you the woman on the phone?”
She groped about for my zipper. “For another 20 I can be anyone you want, sweet pea.”
Her head jerked up, her tone suddenly all business. “But no rough stuff.” She gave me a long, intense stare. “Don’t like rough stuff, do you?”
“Heavens, no!”
“Ruthie don’t go in for that. No S and M. No B and D.”
“B and what?”
“Okay, I’ll do the B. for an extra 100, but no gag.”
I pulled away from her busy hands. “There’s been a huge misunderstanding.”
“Okay, sweet pea,” she said, “50 for a fuck, 40 for a blow—”
“It’s not that.”
“What? You can’t get it up?” Her smiling face was now all crunched up in a grotesque frown.
Her words struck a chord. “That’s not the problem, lady!”
A greasy-looking Latino man suddenly appeared at my side from out of the shadows. Even in the quarter-light of the parking lot I could see the teardrop tattoo below his right eye. He had a Vandyke beard and a Texas Rangers ball cap that sat on his head at a funny angle. The hat made him look real dopey, but in a threatening sort of way.
“¿Qué sucede, el deporte?” he said in a casual manner.
“What?”
“What’s happening, sport?”
“No, really. Not much.” I felt the strangest tickle in my stomach.
“You don’t like my girlfriend?” He slapped my arm in a decidedly hostile manner.
I gulped air.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“I like her fine,” I replied, agonizing over how I had gotten myself into such a fix.
“Then make me happy,” Ruthie said.
“How?” I kept my eyes glued on the man. I envisioned a knife at my throat at any moment.
“Ruthie is the happiest when she’s being fucked,” the man in the dopey ball cap said.
“I see.” I felt a crooked little smile working itself into one corner of my mouth.
“And I’m the happiest when she’s being fucked,” the man said. “She’s happy. I’m happy. You’re happy. Everybody’s happy. Get the picture, sport?”
“I was supposed to meet a widow woman here,” I explained, touching the rose in my lapel. “I’m wearing a rose so she can recognize me. I read her ad in the Santa Fe Scene newspaper.”
The man leaned forward. “What?”
“You see, I’ve just moved here from Decatur, Illinois,” I began. “I was a dentist there. An endodontist, actually. Anyway, I’m new in town and I was trying to meet people, and I read this newspaper ad that was placed by this widow woman who said she—”
“SHUT UP!”
“How about Ruthie and I not having intercourse, but saying we did, and I give Ruthie some money for the delightful conversation.” The tickle in my stomach had evolved into a painful knot.
“Maybe I take your money, you fuckin’ cock-a-roach,” he said, pulling a small pistol from the pocket of his baggy pants.
“Yes, take my money,” I muttered, fumbling for my wallet.
I don’t know to this day what would have happened next if two security officers hadn’t happened past on their nightly rounds. Big, strapping Native Americans, they asked me if I wanted to file charges—they recognized Ruthie and her boyfriend—and when I said no, they sent the pimp and his meal ticket packing in the rusty Ford camper.
I went inside the casino and located a beverage cart.
“Give me a drink,” I told the young woman pushing the cart. “A piña colada. Can you make one?”
“Sorry, sir, we don’t sell alcohol.” She told me it was the law. Native American land, and all that.
“Then make it an orange juice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tall glass.”
I drank my orange juice, and after a few minutes I regained some of my composure. I touched the rose in my lapel, and then wandered around the busy casino hoping to meet my financially secure widow.
I glanced at my watch: 9:45.
I strolled over to a dice table where a fat man in a green plaid sports coat was rolling the dice and yelling, “Eight the hard way!” He must have made eight the hard way because everybody gathered around the table suddenly screamed deliriously.
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I turned and looked into the face of a Greek goddess. Classic Mediterranean. Tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Full lips. Perfect teeth, straight and white.
She looked at me with a tight smile. “Lovely rose.”
“Yes,” I said, touching the flower. I recognized her voice.
“Any particular reason you’re wearing it?”
“I’m getting goose bumps. How about you?”
She paused, and then asked politely, “Are you the man on the phone?”
“The same,” I grinned.
“You answered my personal ad?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You’re T.D.H.?”
“I suppose so.”
She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.
“You okay?”
A slow, red flush climbed her face. “You son-of-a-bitch!” she snarled, her eyes full of fire. “You are not tall, you are not dark, and you certainly are not handsome!”
Several people at the dice table turned in our direction.
I tried desperately to think of a cute reply.
“You actually think you resemble John Kennedy?”
I had no answer.
“Before or after the assassination?”
Her remark cut me to the quick.
“You counterfeit bastard!”
Then I experienced a first. I got my face slapped.
For an instant or two my ears were filled with ringing bells. White stars pinwheeled before my eyes, and my cheek burned as if the skin had been pressed by a hot iron. Somewhere in the whirl and confusion of ringing bells and spinning stars people were laughing.
When my wits returned, the financially secure widow was nowhere to be seen.
4
George Bad Toe turned in his barstool and looked at me in disbelief. “You moved to Santa Fe to do what?”
“To marry a rich widow.” My words were slurring miserably, thanks to three piña coladas. “Or a wealthy divorcee. Either one—I’m not the least bit picky.”