Arroyo Hondo Incident

     Something happened after Magic Mary’s bash that must have unraveled me. I spent more and more time at the fire-pit at the parking lot and less time anywhere else. There was an almost constant quest for spare change enough to make a run down to Arroyo Hondo for a jug. It is hard to imagine how it was done because, after all, it was mostly a minus-cash economy. However, most often, someone came up with a little extra from whatever money they had coming in, or maybe a new arrival… a hippy tourist or two… I couldn’t have kept myself drunk all the time but, whenever I could, I was.

     Now, I gotta say something about Red Mountain wine. It had a twist-off cap… no cork sniffin’ here… It was sold in one gallon jugs that were to be tipped over to one's lips on the fore-arm and anchored with a finger through the ear. Burgundy was the usual fare and it cost a whopping $1.89. It was cheap and nourishing in a sad way. We passed the jug around that same as we would a joint in a communal manner but the most sanitary minded among us wiped the brim off with their sleeve before taking a toke. Sometimes a hit or two or ten of acid would spike it off on special occasions but most of the time it was consumed straight out of the jug.

     Someone, I don’t recall who, left a 1949 International Harvester flatbed truck in the parking lot and gave me the keys. I recon that whoever had the keys in their possession had ownership of the truck. It was perfect for hauling people into Taos or making runs down to Arroyo Hondo for a jug or two of Red Mountain. Many good intelligent people have no idea how to double clutch a stick shift truck and that was also a good deal of why I was given the keys.

      Most of the drinking was pretty non-violent but there were sometimes flare ups now and then. Once, a few of us had been sitting inside of one of the vans parked by the fire pit. I think we were probably getting ready to ride into Taos. One of the regulars was called Red for his red locks of hair braided and beaded. He was a Vet too, with some pretty heavy… walking time-bomb… Viet Nam War baggage… wearing a fringed deerskin jacket and a belt with a k-bar knife… he could be somewhat menacing. The van had a wood floor and, while we were waiting to get rolling, Red pulled out his knife and proceeded to flick it… sticking it to the floor… he did so deliberately getting closer and closer to some of us sitting cross legged in the cramped van. One flick put the knife between my knees, barely missing me. Though it was well aimed I was getting tirte of his intimidation and as soon as the knife stuck I went into automatic reflexive action flying across the van and with both hands around his neck U flattened him to the floor boards. “I don’t need a fucking knife to take you out Red... God damn you… now back off!”

     Red avoided me as much as he could after that incident and I too avoided making eye contact with him. But there was an evening when the us boyos were hanging out at the fire pit and we’d collected enough for a jug of wine. Gleefully, I headed down the winding dirt track from the mesa through the village on to the gas station/store where highway three cut through town. Down and back because of the road, I lumbered in the truck all the way up to the parking lot… it was about a forty-five minute trip. Passing the jug, unopened, across and over the fire pit, a spark popped up out of a stick like it was a spitting viper… it caught me on the forearm and I let go of the jug just as another hand almost grasped it. I’m telling ya, that damned jug went down to meet one of the stones around the pit to a bloodycrashingshardsaflyin’red-winesplashing end. Silence hung over those who saw it all happen like they were witness to the death of a dear one.

     The silence was broken with the first insult, “You fuckin’ fool… What are we gonna do now?”
Then Red said, without hesitation, “That one was for Mother Earth…Now, we’re gonna pool our cash for another one… that’s what were gonna do now.” He was referring to the custom we had borrowed from our Native Pueblo friends… even for the most hard core winos… to spill the first of a jug to the earth out of respect for Mama Earth.

     So, Red and I got back in the truck with enough cash for one jug from the group and another jug I got myself with money I had intended to use for a sack of pinto beans… oh well, food or wine… wine won the debate that night. I atoned for my crime well enough then and there were no hard feelings. That, the incident with ole Crewcut, and another one down at the saloon in Arroyo Hondo were the only occasions where anyone resorted to violence in any of the time I was there at the mesa in spite of all the drinking. 

     The showdown at the saloon was the other time I saw the naked face of violence threaten to undermine the ideal I’d hoped top find on the high plateau of Taos. One evening a bunch of us went down to the joint on the highway down in Arroyo Hondo. I don’t recall why but we all were hanging out in the bar and dancing to the juke box. The cowboys; and, what I suppose would be considered rednecks, sat in their booths watching us with evil eyes…. commenting snidely. Beatrice was there dancing with Willie… his Afro and skin color disturbed them greatly…. We could hear words like “nigger-lovers" and so on… I also remember that Linda and Joe with his braided jet-black Native hair called for some insults too… "white whore", "Injun" and etc. There had to be seven or eight of us… out-numbered the cowboys… but that didn’t stop them from commenting louder about how we smelled and how hard it was to discern whether or not we were girls or boys.

     It got a bit nasty so we all decided it would be best to leave after a few more cowboys entered the place. It was then, as we were leaving, that some pushing and shoving on the way to the truck called for some action. Joe got to the truck first and pulled out a tire iron and swung it in front of the most aggressive taunt-monger, holding him off until we got in the truck. They feared a wild “Injun” wielding iron enough that we were able to depart unscathed. The truck bounced and graveled up the road to the mesa with a tense crew looking back through the dust cloud to see if we were being followed. It was a the unashamed bias and racism that fueled the aggression and it was perhaps the first time I’d been exposed to the venom most people of color were quite sadly accustomed to. I was white-by conflicted... was I really non-violent or was I allowing myself to be protected by Willie and Joe?