A Man on a horse on a rock in the park
by Beth Stiller
[ fiction - october 03 ]
Jennifer rubbed her lower back and wriggled in the driver's seat of the family's Chevrolet station wagon, unable to sit still another second.
She dialed her friend, Brent. "Is it just me?" Brent chose to sleep with dogs rather then women these days. "Am I waking you?"
"I'm up. The dogs wake me at five, Jen. Sit, Buster. That's a good boy."
"Didn't your history books say the West was won by one brave man-on-a-horse after another? Not herds of men on horses, individuals - our way, the John Wayne lone cowboy way. I have yet to find even one monument of a-man-on-a-horse on a rock in the park."
Brent asked, "Whoa, where are you?" Brent's reflex to vanquish women's problems had atrophied.
"In LA, driving."
"Driving, in LA?" he said sarcastically. "The sun isn't even up yet."
"Yep, 5:30 AM wake up call this school year." The children swayed sleepily in the backseat of her car.
"Jennifer, my high speed internet is down."
"Sorry to hear that, Brent."
"Do you know what no high speed means? My sex life is ruined. Do you hear that, Jenny?"
"Your dogs barking?"
"Yes, I'm down to Buster, Fester, and a 110 channels of Satellite TV. You know they filmed the television series 'Bonanza' here in Nevada? Where are you driving?"
"Driving the kids to school."
"What are you wearing?"
"Brent, please!"
"Sorry, it's still dark out, thought I might have been dreaming, two days without high speed."
"What happened to phoning in a 22-year-old and a pill?"
"Jennifer, you've been married so long, you don't realize the amount of plastic that takes. One phone call would max out my recycle bin. Worse, she might want to sleep here."
"Brent, you chicken."
"I just want my high speed."
"Did you pay your bill?"
"Sure, what could be more important then high speed."
"Did you hear the president ask for 87 billion dollars? How much is a school bus anyway?"
"Has September 11th rolled around again, time for the traditional airplane food dinner? Is Mr President wanting to upgrade from Business Class this year?"
"You! Mr Laugh track."
"Jenny, you live right in the city."
"Don't get me started, twenty minutes from the kid's school."
"Oh well, Jen, there go the dogs. I'd better go walk them."
"This is the richest country in the world... we can't even have a school bus!" "Bye, Jennifer." He was happy to hang up the phone and be with his dogs and electronic toys. That's why he moved to Nevada.
"Bye." She swung down the visor and flipped open its mirror. Her hair was all nutty, just right for a high fashion runway, make-up, wardrobe and face absent. It was roll out of bed, morning hair, crowning large dark eyes, an unfixed nose, and soft unpainted lips. The high cheekbones and single dimple made her attractive enough.
Jennifer put her mobile phone in the little space below the car's cup holder and the Global Positioning System Screen. She turned on the radio.
"Good-morning Angelinos," the DJ began as he did each weekday morning, "Buenos dias, lost angels, fluttering about the largest Hispanic metropolis in these United States. Horale chicos. We, who reside in the bowels of the Los Angeles Basin enclosed by the San Gabriel Mountains, prehistoric walls which by day compact our gaseous waste, and, by night, receive new air pounding in from the Pacific, tossing our hydrocarbons up and away on the jet stream only to be soiled again by morning drive time, my time, our time together, when heavy air heaves the chest, rasps the throat, and makes asthma the norm. But it's okay, you can't walk anywhere anyway, there's no public transportation to walk to. Hermanos y hermanas, sit back in the driver's seat. Let me be your cruise control. Let's commute!"
The cell phone rang. It was Brent again.
"Buster pooped, and Fester did whatever business he can do at his age."
"Where are you?"
"Home, Nevada, out walking the dogs." Brent Bullbaker went to Nevada to simplify his life, not only to sleep with dogs instead of women, but also to pay no taxes.
Jennifer turned down the radio, "Okay, this so bothers me. There is not one great monument, at an intersection, City Hall, at a freeway on-ramp, a studio gate, not even at our theme parks, the beach. There is not one a man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock to show out-of-town guests. We are opaque to the past. Blindly blasting into the future. I need a Man-on-a-horse!"
"You're married how long now? Weren't you the one who told me the only casual sex is married sex? Of course you need a man-on-a-horse. How about starting with a man in a bed and work up."
"I really need a monument!"
"A man you meant?"
"You're incorrigible Brent."
"I got to go, looks like I have to carry Fester back. Old pooch can't walk another step. Maybe they fixed my high speed."
"Brent, listen please. You can take it."
"Jennifer, do you want to know what I really think?"
"Well, okay if you can't listen, the least you can do is talk, shoot."
"Hey Jen give it up! Why do you keep trying so hard? You know what LA is there for? It is a place to make money. No one cares about the past or the future. They want the now. 'Be here now', 'Live for the present'. Don't you remember taking to the streets? Sister, it worked! Live with it. We killed off the guy on a horse on a rock in the park, as you call it. We wiped out the buffalo. We committed genocide on the Native Americans. We annihilated the past. Beware of what you wish for."
"Brent, I still care!"
"Jenny, nobody wants a guy on a horse. They want a BMX tearing up Mount Everest. They want a sexy chick surfer riding a rogue wave - the quiet storm humped from behind."
"I invested three quarters of my life in this city..."
"I have to carry Fester home. Poor old woof can't evacuate his bowels, anal area needs human attention. Got to go, Jen."
"Okay, bye."
"Bye."
The children swayed in Jennifer's back seat. They wore seatbelts and bags under their eyes; it was only Tuesday. Their heavy backpacks hadn't made their shoulders sore yet, or hunched their backs like rice farmer's yet.
Jennifer dialed Gayle; she'd be setting off with her kids at about this time.
The car radio blared through the phone. "Remember commuter amigos", that eighty seven billion dollars el presidente is asking Congress to spend shall be invested back into our country. Warfare is welfare for our economy."
"Hello."
"Hi, Gayle, Jennifer here. Do you have a minute?"
Gayle turned down the car radio. "Hi ya, what are you wearing?"
"What are you a boy? Pl-eese."
"Aw, give it up..."
"Okay, Ben's boxers, a Fox Sports Tee Shirt, no bra, no shoes, ugly eyeglasses and a shmata over my crazy hair."
"Just my type, that's why we shop on Rodeo Drive."
"Oh but I did spritz on a dash of perfume, bought on Rodeo in fact."
"As did I."
"If the LAPD makes me get out of this car, Gayle..."
"Okay, sorry. I just wanted a visual. What's up, Jen?"
"Has it ever bothered you that our city hasn't one man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock in the park monument - a Marcus Aurelius, the only ancient Roman sculpture not melted down for weapons. The only one, Gayle."
"Jennifer, get a life!"
"I have a life. Two, in fact, maybe more... I time trip you know..."
"Oh please, that hasn't been done since California was spelled with a 'K' and never here in the confederate south. When we make enough money, fame whatever it is we are here in SoCal for; we will leave this place, like all the rest. Who actually thinks of LA as home?"
"My kids?"
"Fine, the Hixledon children."
"Mexicans, Gayle. Mexicans think of LA as home. It's Mexico's Independence Day this weekend. A lot of Mexican Flag waving on the steps of City Hall. Imagine us waving American flags on the steps of Mexico City's City Hall, or in Paris for that matter."
"Did you say imagine a Latin Lover, Jen, a man, who treats women like a work of art - a sculpture, a man, who can express his feelings poetically. Did I ever tell you about Emilio Cordillera? He's a weapon no furnace can melt..."
"Gayle, man oh man, don't you have your kids in the car, Mrs Private School Chauffeur?"
"Yes, ma'am, Mexican Independence - Cinco de Mayo."
"Nah, that's when the Mexicans kicked out the French, but on the fifteenth of September, Mexico, Central America and the Californianos booted out the Spanish."
"Whatever. Hey, you don't know everything, little Miss Boxer-Shorts braless perfumed, time tripper, there is a-man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock sculpture." Gayle boasted as she ran a yellow light. Gayle belonged to the ruling race. Members rarely went east of La Brea.
"Really?" Jennifer, who also racially qualified, responded. Though Jennifer had more curiosity then fear, she preferred to live uptown and play downtown. Her children attended public school.
"Have you forgotten John Wayne?"
"John Wayne, the actor?"
"There is a monument of John Wayne on a horse at the West America Bank building, right here on the Westside, corner of Wilshire and La Cienega."
"Do you suppose he collects royalties, John Wayne? A-man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock-monument-product-endorsement?"
"Bank went out of business, I don't know?"
"Does John Wayne count?"
"Well, I guess."
"Is he still alive?"
At five in the evening, Jennifer was still sitting in the driver's seat. She was looking forward to her chiropractor's appointment next Thursday, squirming after her eighth hour behind the wheel. She watched the odometer roll over from 99 miles to a clean one hundred, transporting children from one end of the city to the other. She spoke on the cell phone to the children's working parents making pick up drop off strategies more complex then a winning Super Bowl play.
Then she dialed Brent. "I saw it."
"Where are you?"
"LA, driving"
"Surprise. You should move to Nevada." A dog barked.
"Actually East LA, the other side of downtown."
"Are you allowed that far east? Okay, saw what?"
"Unbelievable, a reaffirmation of life, history, culture. Our city ranks. Hallelujah!"
"Okay, so you go to East LA and find, your ah, Latin lover on a horse... Oh-really-us-cesar of the barrio. "
"I'm driving Mookie's schoolmates home. Listen, you just don't listen. I saw a man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock, in a traffic circle, no less, accompanied by a man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock - two. Got to Go." Jennifer closed her cell phone.
"Jen..." Brent wanted to tell her he was lonely in his air-conditioned command and control condo, packed with dogs and electronic toys, but Jennifer had already hung up. He gazed at the plasma screens. He pet the dog. Plasmas show no reflection. The words never came.
"Isn't this exciting, children: a man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock!" Mookie's mom, Jennifer was beaming. "No look, unbelievable. Another man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock, two! We have arrived girls!" Jennifer pulled the car over, grabbed her mega pixel digital camera, and waded her way through automobile traffic, one bum, no pedestrians, no pigeons.
The backseat full of girls, whose day had begun at 5:30 am, threw their eyes to the car ceiling. "Pff... moms!" They were exhausted, famished & parched, the price of integrating the metropolis. "Some dumb old statue," they whispered. Ashley, Mindy, Mookie & Nü carried the genetic code of four races and four religions. They were held together by friendship, a common work ethic, hunger, thirst, exhaustion and bewilderment in the grownup.
Mookie's man-horse crazed mom had illegally parked on the traffic circle, grabbed her camera, and, had abandoned the vehicle. The keys were in the ignition.
Jennifer feared the man-on-the-horse-on-a-rock would disappear without documentation. Jennifer needed to get this data to the Westside, e-mail it to Brent.
The girls pressed their tired noses against the car window while Mookie's mom shot photos of the man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock and the other man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock sprinkled with purple jacaranda flowers.
A man slinked across the road and peered into the station wagon. He wrinkled his wide nose, which lifted a thick handle bar moustache. The man swung open the driver's door and mounted Mookie's mom's seat. The stench of horse manure and gunpowder forced the girls to sit back. He raffled through the glove compartment for insurance papers. His wide brimmed hat swung around, a white smile shone. The mustached man, with neatly buttoned collar, a belt of bullets across his chest turned to the back seat. His kind squinty eyes, and weathered skin looked down at them. "Out!" He yelled. "¡Afurera!" He shooed the girls from the car and drove it away.
"Mom!" Mookie yelled over the noise of the circling cars. "Somebody took our car! Probably a terrorist." Jennifer, Mookie's mom, hadn't noticed. She had just captured the right angle of the monuments.
"I'll be right there, baby." Jennifer waved her arm without looking up. She was very pleased with the last shot, showing the stance of the horse against palm trees, purple flowers and the orange sunset. "Won't be a minute now, girls," Jennifer yelled back over the roar of traffic.
The girls stood on the sidewalk and looked at each other. "We have a science test tomorrow. Now what are we going to do?" Ashley asked.
"No." Nü conceded.
"Oh no." Mindy admitted.
"...The History Project." Mookie realized.
"The History Project, it's in the car!"
"In the car. That's why we came to Ashley's in the fist place to do our..."
"...history project!" they said in unison and sat on the curb of the roundabout, not a pigeon nor pedestrian in sight, only Mookie's man-horse crazed mom shooting statues against the setting sun.
"Yeah right," they all agreed. "I thought my mom wasn't that bright." Ashley said.
"We've been carjacked."
"Worse, our history project has been jacked."
"Do you think the terrorist likes history?"
"Let's just tell Mr Tucker," Nü suggested.
"Mr Tucker isn't such a bad teacher," Mindy continued.
"I hate Mr Toupee Tucker and his stupid quizzes…"
The conversation continued until Jennifer felt she had enough visual digital data to proclaim to the Westside that there is a man-on-a-horse-on-a-rock in Los Angeles - two, in fact. Bonanza!
Since we are unable to default to the weather, general conversation in Los Angeles remains superficial. Jennifer took this approach when she walked into the East LA precinct of the LAPD with four very tired girls. "Lovely night." She was there to report a carjacking.
Below the short blue sleeves of his uniform the taught muscles of the young LAPD recruit shone under florescent lights. Heat and flies hung.
"Mrs Hixeldon, you illegally parked your car to do what?"
"Officer Garcia, have you been to the roundabouts in Lincoln Park?"
"Roundabouts?" His short haircut had a twinge of ancient Rome.
"Traffic circles..."
"Yes, Ma'am, at Plaza de la Raza."
"Officer Garcia, those sculptures put our city on the map!"
"They are monuments to Mexican liberators, Mrs Hixeldon. Gifts to the City of Los Angeles from the United States of Mexico."
"We have arrived, Officer Garcia."
"On foot, Ma'am."
The girls looked at each other. The fluorescent lights of the police station turned their complexions green. "Officer Garcia," the girls contributed, "the man who took the car was dressed funny."
"So you got a good look at him?" Officer Garcia's partner Rodriguez asked.
The girls nodded. Nü held her nose.
"Gunpowder & manure?" Officer Rodriguez asked.
The girls nodded. "He had a big hat and this retro bullet belt across his chest."
The officers shook their heads, "Make of your car, Mrs Hixeldon?"
"Chevrolet, officer."
"El Pancho Villa del Chevy" Officer Garcia continued. "I believe you and your girls are victims of a guy who, robs cars from the rich brings them down to Tijuana for a serial number lift and paint job then gives them to the poor."
"At least we're not the only ones." Jennifer feared explaining the situation to the girl's parents. She reached for her cell phone. It was in the car.
"Well, can't say he has ever had, such a convenient target. I'm sure he appreciates the delivery, ma'am. Sr Pancho Villa del Chevy is the Robin Hood of the hood, a hero around here. We have never been able to catch him. No one will come forward to turn him in. Try to be more careful next time, Mrs Hixeldon."
Brent dialed Jennifer. The man driving her car heard the cell phone sounding between the cup holder and the Global Positioning System. He was already crossing Camp Pendleton. The Global Positioning System estimated one hour from TJ. He flipped open the phone. " Ah ha, you Americans, trying a new trick are you? See you in Sinaloa, soldier boy."
"Jesus, Jen. You sound like Bonanza episode #58. I just wanted to tell you I got my high speed internet back. I'm liberated."
