Demon Box

There is movement behind the low vine-shrouded doorway of a shack so small that it could fit into the Dodge's mobile home and still have room for the sow. A man ducks out of the doorway, fa

"Buenas tardes," the Tra

"I spik Engliss a little," says El Mecanico Fantastico.

The Tra

When the tale finally dribbles to an end, EMF asks, "What you want for me to do?"

"To come down to that big garage where they towed it and take the danged transmission out so I can send it to Tucson. See?"

"I see, si," says the mechanic. "Why you don't use the big garage mecanicos?"

"They won't work on it until Monday is why."

"Are you in such a hurry you ca

"I already called and told Tucson I was shipping the thing back to them by Monday. I like to get on these things while they're hot, you see."

"Si, I see," says El Mecanico Fantastico, fa

"Can't we get on it now? I'd like to be sure of getting it on that train."

"I see," says the Mexican. "Hokay. I get my tools and we rent a burro."

"A burro?"

"From Ernesto Diaz. To carry my tools. The big garage locks their tools in a iron box."

"I see," says the Tra

Suddenly there is a big brodie of squeals and yelps in the dust. The sow's red-bristled boar friend has dropped in and caught Chief making eyes at his lady. By the time they are pulled apart Chief has one ear slashed and has lost both canines in the boar's brick hide.

But that isn't the worst of it. Giving away all that weight has been too much for dog's aged hindquarters. Something is dislocated. He has to ride back down strapped atop a second burro. The ride pops the dislocation back in so he can walk again by evening, but he is never able afterward to lift a hind leg without falling over.

They've been there a week now. They are flat-tiring back from the beach to the south in a rented Toyota open-top. The left rear blew out miles back. There is no spare. And a ruptured radiator hose is spewing steam from under the dash so they can barely see the road ahead.

Finally the wife asks, "You're going to just keep driving it?"

"I'm going to drive the sonofabitch back to the sonofabitch that rented me the sonofabitch and tell him to shove this piece of broken Jap junk up his overpriced greaser ass!"

"Well, drop the dog and me off at the Blums' first, then, if you're going to – if we get close."

She didn't say If you're going to make a scene. There was steam and furor enough.

The Tra

The Blums' hacienda is not down in Gringo Gulch but up on the town's residential slopes. The yard of a shack across the canyon-of-a-street is level with his window, and three little girls smile at him across the narrow chasm. They keep calling Hay-lo mee-ster, then ducking back out of sight in the foliage of a mango tree and giggling.

That tree is the whole neighborhood's social center. Kids play in its shade. Birds fly in and out of its branches. Two pigs and a lot of chickens prowl the leafy rubble at its roots. All kinds of chickens – chickens scrawny and chickens bald, chickens cautious and chickens bold. The only thing the chickens seem to have in common is freedom and worthlessness.

The Tra

"Dear Sis: Gawd, wot a country! It is too poor to know it's ignorant and too ignorant to know it's poor. If I was Mexico you know what I would do? I would attack the U.S. just to qualify for foreign aid when we whup 'em (ha ha). Seriously, it sure isn't what I had hoped, I can tell you that."

A green mango bounces off the grill of his window. More giggles. He reads the last line with a sigh and lays down his ballpoint.

Wish you were here, Sissy, with all my heart. He drains his Seven-and-Seven and feels a kind of delicious depression sweep over him. A poignancy.

An accordion in one of the shacks begins practicing a familiar tune, a song popular back home a couple years back. What was it? Went la la la laa la la; we'd fight and neh-ver win… That was it! Those were the days, my friend; those were the days…

The poignancy becomes melancholy, then runs straight on through sentiment to nostalgia. It stops just short of maudlin. With another sigh he picks his pen up and resumes the letter:

"I think of you often on this trip, Old Pal. Do you remember the year Father drove us to Yellowstone Park and how great it was? How wonderful and bright everything looked? How proud we felt? We were the first kids coming out of the Depression whose Father could afford to take his family on such a trip. Well let me tell you, things are not bright anymore and not very likely to get so. Ferinstance, let me tell you about visiting Darold, in 'Berserkly.' That about says it. You simply ca

He stops again. He hears a strange clucking voice: "Qué? Qué?" In the yard across the way he sees a very old woman. She appears to be swaying her way along a clothesline with an odd, weightless motion. Her face is vacant of teeth or expression. She seems unreal, a trick of the heat, swaying along, clucking "Qué? Qué? Qué?" She sways along until she reaches a frayed white sheet. She gathers it from the line and starts feeling her way back to her shack. "Qué? Qué? Qué Qué?"

"Blind," says the Tra

The Tra