Crypto-Quote No. 4

One Being's Sacredness is another Being's Blasphemy
One Being's Blasphemy is another Being's Ecstasy
One Being's Ecstasy is another Being's Sorrow
Sacredness, Blasphemy, Ecstasy, Sorrow
What does it mean in another tomorrow?

--Darjeeling: From The Statements [f51v]

The Mummified Body of Huey Ning

The Miami County Sherriff’s Department squad car pulled slowly into the lane. Darjeeling looked up from the park bench on the front porch and watched as the three dogs took out on a dead run, hair up on their backs and heading straight for the car. The deputy slammed on the brakes and the car nose-dived to avoid a dog-car collision and Darjeeling laughed. “Deppity Doofus,” he thought and stayed put as the officer slowly maneuvered the car through the dog pack. The deputy, her composure regained, stayed in the car, apparently writing down something but most likely obeying one of the rules of police training: Make them wait and they will come to you, then you have the offensive. Darjeeling stayed put. Flustered at the dogs jumping on the car’s window sill, the officer finally emerged then fell back as Albert, the friendliest of the three planted both feet on her chest. Darjeeling laughed, “Albert, heel!” he called out and the dog totally ignored him. The officer, bolder now, shoved the door open and jumped out. “Cute little thing,” Darjeeling measured her up.
“Is this the Ning residence?” the officer asked, looking around to make sure the dogs weren’t going to rip her uniform.
“No ma’am, this here is the Darjeeling residence.”
“I’m looking for Huey Ning at this residence.”
“Not here, ma’am, ole Huey went ta shit and the hogs ate ‘im.” Darjeeling took a swig from his beer. “Care for a Mickey’s, ma’am?”
“What I care for is for you to tell me who you are and to cooperate with me. We’re trying to find out who ran through the barbed wire fence on the Younger property the night before last. We have witnesses that say they saw a green Ford Ranger pickup leaving the scene. Doesn’t Mr. Ning have a green Ford Ranger pickup?”
“Name’s Darjeeling, ma’am.”
“Would you please just answer the question?”
“’ats what I just did, ma’am.”
“I mean about Mr. Ning and his pickup.”
“He ain’t got one. And besides, he’s dead.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yep, deader ‘n a hammer. They found his mummified body in a Buddhist Stupa in Taiwan about a month ago. Said he just up and walked in, sat down, and died. In three days his body was completely mummified.”
The deputy looked at him and started toward the porch, hand on pistol grip. Just then, the Ford Ranger came flying into the lane. “Damn,” Darjeeling thought, “perfect timing.”
The deputy looked at the truck, looked at Darjeeling, looked at the truck again as it came to a stop in back of the barn. She glared at Darjeeling. “That’s a green Ford Ranger Pickup!” she yelled.
“No ma’am, that there is a aquamarine Ford Ranger pickup with a racing stripe.” Darjeeling slowly got up and dusted off his jeans. “And that ain’t Huey, neither.”

Jenny Takes A Ride

Jenny remembered how she had been set up. It was a Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels concert at Coya’s Castle in Lenexa. She was there with her girl friends and they were teasing her about the hit song, Jenny Take A Ride. She thought it was a cool song, too, but she just wasn’t prepared for the way things happened that night. Her blue mini-skirt and white go-go boots set her up for a night of hot dancing. She never dreamed she would be on stage.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the fat man asked.
“Jenny, Jenny Linn,” she offered somewhat anxiously. She didn’t know this man and who you don’t know, you don’t trust. She went on the female defensive. Her mother had taught her well, “With that short of a skirt, you keep them legs crossed, little lady.”
“Well, now, Jenny Linn. Is that the same Jenny Lind, the famous Swedish diva?” Fat Man smiled and offered his hand. He kind of looked like P.T. Barnum and Jenny remembered what else her mother had said, “Don’t forget, young lady, there’s a sucker born every minute, P.T. Barnum said that.” She looked the Fat Man right in the eye and shook back her red hair to one side. Her emerald green eyes flashed. That’s how she did with men.
“No, sir,” Jenny said ignoring his puffed up, outstretched hand. “but I can sing as good as I want to.”
The Fat Man laughed, “We’ll just see about that,” and he turned and walked toward the stage. The lights were still up but the place was starting to get crowded.
“Hey!” Jenny yelled, “I do know who Jenny Lind is.”
“I never thought for a minute you didn’t,” Fat Man turned and pointed his pinky at her. Flashes of colored light from his diamond ring startled Jenny for a bit.
She got a cold can of Coors and watched the people filing in. It was a hot summer night, just right for a rock and roll concert. The roadies were testing the vocal mics and setting up about ten or twelve six foot tall Kustom amps. The blue roll and tuck plastic covering on the amps sparkled in the spots. Jenny felt like going up there. It was like a magnetic draw and she really wanted to be on stage. She spotted the Fat Man and made her move.
"Hey, mister, any chance I can do an opening number while the crowd moves on in?"
"Now what makes you think you can just walk on stage and sing, Jenny?'
"Well, it would give you a chance to check the sound man out, and maybe you might discover a new talent," Jenny boldly looked him in the eyes and stood there, almost like she was at attention or ready to spring to the stage as soon as he gave her the nod.
"Not tonight, little girl, this is too big of a gig and besides these are union musicians and wont take kindly to a non-union singer."
Jenny reached into her purse. "Here you go, sir, Local No. 40, my mom used to be secretary there and I've been a member since I was a kid singing on some local radio shows with my folks. We did country western and bluegrass gospel."
Fat Man laughed so hard he was shaking all over. "OK, but you're singing for free."
"Unh Uh, momma told me never to sing for free and I want scale."
Fat Man looked her over for a second then turned around and walked off but she could see that he was laughing. He turned around and pointed his finger at her, his giant ring flashing again. "OK, scale, but you better rock this place. I'll talk to Mitch and get his band out here. Oh, by the way, what are you going to sing?"
"How about Johnny B. Goode?"
"You got it, little girl, get on up there and let's rock and roll!" Fat Man headed for the stage where the Detroit Wheels were getting ready. He said a few words to them and motioned Jenny up to the mic. The house lights went down and the spots came on.
"All right, Kansas city rockers, let's roll!" Fat Man yelled into the mic. "First up tonight we have a treat for you all. You all know Mitch's song Jenny Take A Ride? Well, here's Jenny, Kansas City's own prairie canary, Miss Jenny Linn singing Johnny B. Goode!"

A Bottle Of Mateus Rose

“A bottle of Mateus Rose,” Lieutenant colonel Hank Leopord snapped his fingers at the bartender as he escorted the round-eye nurses from 25th Med-Evac into the Officer’s Club. “Captain Holcomb, Captain Esposito please join me and these fine ladies from Cu Chi Dustoff at my table, the rest of you find a table. Bartender! Where is that wine?”
Darjeeling reached under the bar and grabbed a bottle of the Portuguese wine. Having set out in the blazing sun in the Class VI yard for six months or more, it was more like a Madeira than a rose. He grabbed a corkscrew and a towel and started for the head table, staring at the nurses. He had not seen a “round-eye” for six months. Placing the bottle on the table next to the colonel he proffered the corkscrew with his right hand.
“Well, what are you waiting for, man? Open the damn thing.” Hank Leopard glared at Darjeeling and found himself looking straight at the pointed end of the corkscrew which was about two inches from his eyeball.
“Deadly weapon, sir,” Darjeeling said, placing the corkscrew next to the bottle, “you may want to do that yourself.”
Captain John Hostetler, sitting to the left of the colonel grabbed the bottle and corkscrew. “I’ll do it, sir, we wouldn’t want PFC Darjeeling to corkscrew it up.” Hostetler began peeling the lead foil off of the bottleneck. He looked at the nurse who was sitting next to him and laughed loudly. “Get it, corkscrew it up.” Darjeeling couldn’t believe that Hostetler actually elbowed the nurse in the ribs, causing her to recoil and then excuse herself to the ladies room. Except there was no ladies room, only a piss tube outside. She walked around a bit and then sat back down. Darjeeling returned to the bar, fixing Captain Walker a Rob-Roy and taking the crap that Walker was giving him about how dirty the glass was.
“This is a war zone, sir,” Darjeeling said as he looked through the reel-to-reel tapes for something to put on the state-of-the-art Akai deck. "It's Viet Nam, not New York City." He picked up The Soft Parade by the Doors threading the tape onto the empty reel and flipping the switch. About ten seconds later, Colonel Leopard was at the bar.
“Get that shit off of there, now! Put on Wes Montgomery and burn that tape!” His face was red and his eyes were bugging out. He wanted to kill Darjeeling. “Give me that tape!”
Darjeeling ripped the Doors off and quickly threaded the Wes Montgomery onto the deck. He thought to himself, “That will do just fine, sir, that will do just fine.” He remembered the scene with Hostetler earlier in the day.
“Darjeeling, when I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it.”
“Yes sir, Captain Hostetler, sir, I’ll get right on it, sir,” Darjeeling snapped a British salute and clicked his heels together. Then he put his hands on the table and got in the captain’s face. “You seem to have changed drastically, Hoss,” he said. Hostetler nearly exploded but Darjeeling’s hand came down and pushed him back into the chair. “Just two months ago you and I were smoking dope and counting VC up in Rocket City and now you’re pulling this bullshit on me. You better watch your back, Hoss, or I’ll blow the whole scene on you. You break foul on me one more time and I start talking.” Hostetler slumped back into the chair.
Darjeeling snapped back to the present and looked at the clock. The CS gas canister was hissing outside the door of the club. It only took a few minutes for the gas to be drawn in by the window unit air conditioner. “Another Rob-Roy, sir?” Darjeeling asked, “Or maybe a Manhattan this time?” He reached for his gas mask and drew it on as the party quickly broke up, officers and nurses heading for the front door and right into the gas cloud. He motioned at the nurse that had caught Hostetler's elbow. She had put a wet towel over her face and was calmly watching the scene while looking for an exit. “Out the back and head south toward the mess hall,” he told her. The place was empty now except for Wes Montgomery. Darjeeling picked up the Doors and followed the nurse out the door.

Dans l'atelier d'Darjeeling 

On The Narrow Guage To Darjeeling

The two passengers eyed each other as the Darjeeling Express wound its way through the mountainous track. Muktee, the Indian, smiled and adjusted his legs under him as he watched the American with a curious eye. “What did you say your name was, Sahib?” Muktee used the old Indian term sarcastically knowing that the American would get the joke. It was obvious that his fellow traveler was experienced in travel on the railway especially since he was riding in the freight car and not one of the plush tourist cars.
“Is,” the American smiled back.
“What’s that?” the Indian didn’t catch the inferential logic.
In a half-assed English accent meant to augment the Indian’s use of the Sahib title, the American continued, “Darjeeling is my name,” he said, emphasizing the word is. “If my name was Darjeeling, I wouldn’t be here, right?” he kept on in the pseudo-English accent emphasizing the word was, stretching it out to the absurd.
Muktee was really interested now. Here was an American traveling in India with a false English accent whose name was the same as the destination he was headed for. “Darjeeling? Your name is Darjeeling?” Muktee pulled his head back to the side and gave that look of incredulity.
“Leftenant Stephen Darjeeling at your service,” the American gave the Indian the English salute. “Not really a leftenant, you know, I just always wanted to use the title. I never could understand why the English always said “Leftenant” and not “Loo-tenant” like the American pronunciation.”
“Yes, the English are peculiar in that way,” Muktee agreed, reaching into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes, “Galwah?” he offered one to Darjeeling.
“No thanks, old chap, I don’t indulge in that particular vice, although there are others in which I do,” Darjeeling’s accent was beyond ludicrous at this point and Muktee was playing it to the hilt, too. Like they were in a Bollywood movie and the scene was moving along with the sway of the freight car stuffed with American and English tourist baggage.
Just then Darjeeling noticed some movement near one of the bags. There was kind of a hole in the freight car floor next to the gaudy American suitcase near his right foot. It was Darjeeling’s own Route 66 suitcase and it had nearly everything he owned in it. He liked to tell the story about how many times he had followed that suitcase as he jumped either from the ass-end of a CH-47 Chinook in Viet Nam or off of a beat up merchant marine ship in the Bahamas, throwing the suitcase out into nowhere and not knowing where his feet or the suitcase might land. Out of the hole a beighish white head popped out, two beady eyes and a forked tongue surveying their surroundings. Darjeeling recoiled, pulling his foot back and pushing his back as far as he could against the luggage behind him.
“Don’t move too quickly, Sahib,” Muktee laughed and then faked a look of terror that he probably learned in Bollywood. The look was so good it would have won at any film festival.
Darjeeling wasn’t acting, now that the snake began emerging from the floor hole and was making its way in the direction of his pantleg. He shifted some more. The snake stopped directly in front of him, a mere foot away, and he could now plainly see the black markings on the flared white hood.
“Don’t worry, Darjeeling, it is only Naga, the White Cobra, hardly anything to have a heart attack over. She is only curious and wants to get to know you better.” Muktee took a drag on the cigarette and blew the blue smoke at the crack in the freight car door and smiled, his eyes locked on the snake and the American.
Suddenly the snake lunged toward Darjeeling’s pant leg. He jumped up and fell onto the baggage behind him. The white cobra reared back again, bearing its one inch fangs and letting the black tongue hang below its lower lip. Then, looking directly into the eyes of the human in front of her, Naga slowly turned to show him the back side of her hood. He was terrified. The snake slowly moved away toward the hole in the floor. Darjeeling watched as she moved in an erect posture and kept her hood flared so he would remember the black, hour-glass marking forever. He felt a quick fever rising and he began to sweat as he watched her move gracefully and disappear into the floor. He looked at Muktee.
“Sahib, I am afraid you are not long for this world since Naga has graced you with her kiss and showed you her markings.” Muktee laughed out loud.
Darjeeling reached down and tugged the pantleg toward him, immediately noticing the two pin-pricks about an inch apart right below the knee. Quickly pulling up the trouser leg, he looked for the puncture wounds as he reached for his butterfly knife, pulling it out and opening it with a quick flip. The two, red wounds yielded to the blade of the knife as Darjeeling pulled it first across both of them and then down on each, allowing blood to flow freely out as he switched the knife to his left hand and squeezed on the wound with his right. His eyes were glazing and it looked like the room was filled with smoke. He heard voices. His heart began beating harder and faster and he could hear his pulse in his ears matching the chug of the engine as the narrow guage train pulled the last grade before the turnaround toward the Indian city of Darjeeling. Darjeeling watched in awe as he was now looking at himself from a distance of about three feet or so. He could see himself squeezing the bloody wound and the blood dripping on the floor of the train car. He thought he was dead. He reached for his arm and found it solid. He felt his face, shoulders, hands and legs confirming them all. Looking around he saw Muktee in the corner still smoking on the cigarette and carefully watching the sitting Darjeeling, evidently not conscious of the other standing Darjeeling. “Surely, I am dead,” he thought, but he noticed that the sitting Darjeeling kept moving and working on the wound, fully conscious. He realized then that there were two of him, one sitting on the floor and one standing. His fear of dying slowly left and he began to run through his usual logic sequence for unexplained happenings. He remembered the stories coming out of New Delhi in the 90’s about people using cobra venom as a vehicle for out of body experiences. A pin-head drop on the tongue was enough to initiate a ten to twelve hour journey into the mystical world of Indian myth. It looked like Darjeeling was about to take that trip.

Jenny

Jenny could sing like a canary. She loved singing especially in the choir at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church down on Bowlus. She had to do a little smooth talking to get into the choir but it didn’t take much. It was a heck of a lot easier than getting into the Baptist Church choir, that’s for sure. Of course, it was her reputation that followed her around. From hanging out at Wild Willie’s and from being associated with Stephen Darjeeling, but she had gotten immune to the constant comment. The gossip and stories generated at Wild Willie’s Tavern she could handle all right. It was the other ones that really bothered her. That’s why she came to Jetmore in the first place, but it seems that he, Darjeeling, was everywhere and there was no escaping the fact that she had been romantically involved with a notorious past. Tainted past? She didn’t think so, but there were those that did. Anyway, she let it all out when she sang and man could she ever sing. She recalled her interview with Pastor Jack. She thought of him as a modern circuit rider preacher that came around every two weeks unless the weather caught him off guard. He drove an old hoopty car that he referred to as “hoss” and this amused her and kept her interested in him. He was a lot easier to talk to than the other town preachers.
“Ever sing church music before?”
“Oh sure, lots of times,” Jenny looked down at her fingernails and back up at the young Lutheran pastor. She flipped her red hair to one side. She could tell by his eyes that she had him. “Are you married?” she looked right into his eyes and watched the white clerical collar bulge as he swallowed hard.
“No, I’m not. Where did you sing church music?” Pastor Jack reminded himself that that’s what he was, a Lutheran pastor. He conjured up images of Luther throwing his inkwell at the Devil and thought about crossing himself. He got up out of his chair so he could break her enigmatic gaze. Did everyone who came in contact with Jenny Linn fall in love with her immediately on their first meeting? He caught sight of her in the mirror as he reached for the stack of choir music. He scoped out her tank top. “Is it cold in here, or is she excited?” he wondered. “Get behind me Satan!” he almost said it out loud. But then hadn’t Luther himself given up the priesthood for marriage? This was his own personal pillory that he dealt with. “Time for sack cloth and ashes,” he thought as he brought down the sheet music. “Here, try this one,” Pastor Jack shoved the papers at her, his palms clammy, sweat beads popping out on his forehead, and the sheet music rattled, his hand shook so hard.
Jenny found herself having a déjà vu experience. She watched the scene unfold and tried to remember Ken Kesey’s rap in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test about how it couldn’t possibly happen. That it was something like a movie reel speeding up or something like that. She let that go and watched the scene unfold, the pastor’s hand shaking. She could see his skeleton hand holding the shaking white papers out to her. Suddenly a name popped into her consciousness: Fabre d’Olivet. “Oh no,” she winced at the name, “Here we go again.”
“Is everything ok, Ms. Linn?”
She jerked back into reality, the déjà vu and the name disappearing but leaving her a bit apprehensive and embarrassed.
“Yeah, I’m ok, just a little light headed all of a sudden,” she felt a cool breeze on the back of her neck, “What were you saying?”
“Like, where have you sung before?”
“Oh, lots of places, I even sang back-up vocals for some rock groups.”
“That’s great, what about religious music?” Pastor Jack was getting hot under the collar for a different reason now. He had to hoof it on over to Kinsley for a meeting and was running close on time.
“It’s all religious to me,” Jenny said smiling.
“Miss Linn, I have a meeting in 30 minutes in Kinsley, can we please hear you sing?” He shoved the sheets of music to within an inch of her neck, like he was trying to stab her.
Jenny took the music, looked at the pastor, looked at the music and started singing. Notes and words flowed like liquid sunshine out and around the room, wrapping the two into a web of silken light and sound. When she finished the short piece the pastor was nearly unable to speak.
“Brahms Motet, Create In Me A Clean Heart, I last sang that song in Kansas City about a year ago. What do you all do, send each other music?”
“As a matter of fact, we do,” Pastor Jack kind of drooled out the words, so taken was he with what he had just witnessed which was nothing less than a spiritual awakening.
“I want to go with you,” Jenny laid the music sheet down and started toward the door.

Crypt-O-Quote No. 3

It's the dreaming that's real.
--Bob Weir

Burned Out

Nuke Dimmitis walked out of the church in Leawood. “I’ve seen it all now,” Nuke said out loud, “I’m ready to book.” Hidden behind the trash dumpster was his Harley Chopper, a ’65 Panhead with extended forks, lots of chrome and a blue ‘flake paint job. Pulling on aviator goggles and a pair of anti-vibration gloves with the fingers cut off, he straddled the big twin engine and kicked her to life. He idled through the asphalt parking lot, giving a last look to the place where he had found sanctuary the last twelve years. “Twelve years,” Nuke thought, “One for each disciple, including Judas.” He juiced the carbs and the Harley responded with its unmistakable guttural growl. A couple of the elders looked up, grabbing the brim of their hats and shaking their heads as Nuke blew by them. “What a shame,” one of them said. Nuke heard it and turned 180 degrees in the seat to give them a final look at his face. He smiled. Turning back around, he hit the side street and roared off, sycamore leaves chasing him and then giving up as he went out of sight. It was a hard ride away from the church, but not as hard and rough as the road to the church had been. Nuke weapt. But it wasn't the wind in his face that caused the tears.
“Looks like he was headed East,” The elder said.
“Yes, probably to that Buddhist monastery he was always talking about,” The other elder replied, climbing into the 2006 Lexus de Tokeville, “Good riddance, I say, how about you?”
“I don’t know for sure, all I know is he had that so-called vision and kept talking about what he called “The Statements” right before he went into therapy. He sort of melted down”
“That’s why they called him Nuke,” the elder waved goodbye, “See you next Sunday, Ralph.”

Darjeeling's Crypt-O-Quote

Following is a quote written in a substitution cipher in which one letter stands for another. If X=O then X is not equal to anything else. O is not necessarily X but it could be. Today’s clue C = B. Good Luck.

An English bird in the hand is worth more than a Bush in the White House.
--S. Darjeeling

Crypt-O-Quote No. 2: y=x

I think, therefore I lose.
--S.Darjeeling

The Darjeeling Archive has been written entirely in Crypt-O-Quote. Crypt-O-Quote is a system which allows you to manipulate a sentence or entire paragraph so that it comes out in Crypt-O-Quote. This is not copywritten (?) yet but may be soon. Take the word “crypt” for instance. In Crypt-O-Quote the word “crypt” becomes the word “house”, but typing in the word house returns the word “avenue”. It is a constantly changing system where “a is equal to b but b is not equal to a and, later on, a is not equal to b”. Articles remain the same. Syntax is corrected for continuity. This allows a writer to write two or more story lines simultaneously. Reference The Voynich Manuscript which provides the main codex for Crypt-O-Quote. Darjeeling deciphered the Voynich MS by cutting out the circular wheels of the diagrams and reattaching them so you could turn one wheel and realign the elements on the wheels according to the star diagrams on the manuscript page. Darjeeling then assigned alpha-numeric characters to the letters of the “words” in the MS. Characters were assigned according to numeric sequences which were generated by the star configurations. This produced a series of what are called in the MS, “Statements” (Voynich MS p 67). These Statements represent a factual account of the evolution of life in the universe. Darjeeling continues to work on the MS but for now is concentrating on other things.

Rafe

“Rafe, you look like that actor Slim Pickens, and you sound like him, too.” Jenny Linn looked up over her glass and gave Rafe a look that ate clear into his heart.
“Golly, Jenny, nobody ever told me I looked like a movie star before.” Rafe’s heart was pounding and he felt himself getting a little warm. Squishing around on the bar stool he tried to figure out something cool to say. He stared right at Jenny’s halter top until she yelled at him.
“Rafe Garcia, you quit lookin’ at me like that!” Jenny was wise enough to the ways of these Kansas farm boys to know what he had on his mind. The cool breeze came through the open tavern door as she slid off the bar stool and made her way to the restroom door, her manner of walking doing nothing for Rafe’s state of mind as he slathered over his beer. He thought maybe a little poetry would be in order. As the self-proclaimed Poet Lariat of Jetmore he had penned a few romantic lines for use in times like these. But he realized it would take more than his own cowboy poetry to tame this city girl. Lord Byron came to mind. As a boy, he had fallen in love with Lord Byron’s sonnets and had memorized them all.
“Maid of Athens, ere we part, give, oh give me back my heart,” Rafe cast the words out like rocks pitched into a farm pond, the words rippling back into his own ears and bringing him a peaceful feeling as he turned back to the bar and ordered another beer.
“And don’t try to sell me one of them green sons-a-bitches like you sold Slim. Why, that stuff is just bottled up skonk piss.” He heard the sound of the stool flushing in the ladies room and waited for Jenny to come out.
Jenny came out with a vengeance. Her fiery red hair flashed in the sun as she buckled up her belt, the Hesston Commemorative Belt Buckle picking up the sun from the reflection in the bar mirror. Rafe couldn’t see with the sun at her back. He remembered now why the old gunfighters picked high noon for their duels.
“Don’t you call me no frickin’ maid, you frickin’ hillbilly!” Jenny grabbed a pitcher and arced it over her head bringing it down on Rafe’s head, glass going everywhere. She stepped back and put her hands to her mouth, sucking in air and gasping “Oh, no,” at the same time. Rafe slowly got up off the barstool and brushed the glass off his leather vest, then his hair.
“Well now, little lady, I see you don’t cotton to the poetry of George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron, do you.”
“Who the hell is that?”
Rafe walked quietly down the length of the bar, picking up each empty beer pitcher as he came to it. Then he would stare at it as he brought it crashing to his forehead, all the while reciting Lord Byron’s, The Maid of Athens:
“Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! When alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!”
Whack! With the last line, the last pitcher came crashing down and Rafe walked out the door into the Kansas sunshine.

Darjeeling at Pyramid 1975 

Slim

“Boy, I just caint understand why you persist in drinkin’ that skonk piss. Don’t you know that beer comes in a brown bottle?”
“Come on, Rafe, just cuz I’m your little brother don’t mean you kin tell me what to do an’ all. Besides this aint no skonk piss, this here is gore-may beer, just like what’s-‘is-name, that there Darjeeling feller drinks, and besides, I’ve taken a likin’ to the taste.”
Rafe Garcia hooked his thumbs into the straps of his Carharts, leaned his head back and a bit to the right and sent a projectile of tobacco juice directly at Slim. The perfectly aimed torpedo hit the back rim of the squat, green bottle and slid down the side onto the surface of the beer.
“That’ll teach ya ta talk back ta me, will ya. Now git on ta yer chores.”
Slim new better than to challenge big brother Rafe. He’d done it before and always come out on the shit end of the stick. He new better, but it didn’t matter. Slim drove his head straight into Rafe’s gut. This didn’t faze Rafe one bit as he absorbed the head-butt by moving backward with the force of the blow and wrapping his arms around Slim’s torso. With a quick flip, he sent Slim flying through the air. Slim landed about ten feet away still holding onto the soured green bottle of beer. He took aim at Rafe and threw the bottle right at his head. Rafe placed his left foot behind him, settling his weight into his left leg while simultaneously raising his right hand and moving his left hand to rest at his left side. He deftly caught the green missile and, giving Slim a one-eyed squint, raised the bottle to his lips and tipped it skyward. Dribbles of brownish green beer ran out around the corners of his mouth and onto his overalls.
Slim picked up the nearest dried up cow-pie and frisbeed it at Rafe’s head. Rafe jumped into the air, meeting it with his right foot while scissor-kicking with his left. The explosive kick sent cow manure particles flying into Slim’s face, temporarily blinding him. He heard Rafe’s advance. Dodging and rolling in the Kansas dust, Slim felt the ground shake as Rafe stomped after him.
Whomp! Rafe’s number 11 boot came down. Whomp! Slim rolled onto his right side then onto his back, completing a back round-off and landing on his feet. Able to see again, he quickly turned and started running toward the barn, knowing that, even though Rafe could best him in a fist fight, he could never outrun him. He never looked back. As he made the door of the Morgan building, he heard the crash of the bottle above his head. Green glass showered around him as he sought out a hiding place. He knew Rafe wouldn’t come after him in the sanctuary of the barn, but he hid behind the John Deere 420 anyway, hoping the dogs wouldn’t give him away should Rafe be really mad and intent on settling this matter. It was getting to be sundown and Slim knew that soon, Rafe would be going into town. He settled back onto the brome grass hay bales watching the shadows near the doorway just in case.

Laughing Sunny Day

Sunny ran out to the barn and flung the big door open. There it sat, a 1998 Indian Chief, tricked out and ready to roll. Sunny ripped off the dust cover and threw it on the haybales. The two dogs looked at him with that sideways, cocked head dog look but they new what he was doing. They ran outside barking and running in circles, stirring up the barnyard dust. The dust sworled up and got picked up by the heat of the day, turning into a Kansas dust devil, picking up leaves and pieces of paper and carrying them off toward the hay meadow before it petered out at the edge of the pond.
In Kansas, dust was a part of life. Sunny often wondered as he half-joked about whether or not a brass water ladle that hung on the kitchen wall in his old farmhouse would completely fill up with dust someday. But then, dust was everywhere. It clung to figurines from the Great Depression era. It settled onto the furniture and you could dust it off and an hour later it would be dusty again. It covered the fresh-mopped hardwood floors. There was no use in washing your car or wiping the dust off of the dashboard. It would just settle right down again. Sunny had to wipe off the plastic speedometer cover in his ‘84 Chevy pickup when it got too dusty to see how fast he was going. The dust caused the CD player to skip and the radio clock to refuse to be changed on daylight savings time weekend. You slapped dust out of your blue jeans and you brushed it out of your hair with your hands. You learned the country way of blowing dust out of your nose by leaning over, pinching off one nostril and then the other as you blew the dust and snot back onto the Kansas earth. You didn’t blow your nose on a handkerchief like city folks did, it just turned it brown. You used a bandanna to cover your mouth and nose when the dust got too heavy. The dust turned to mud in the sweat on your brow and when you wiped the sweat off your forehead, you left marks in the muddy film that came from the dust. You ate dust with your meal, you ate dust when you worked, and you ate dust when you were asleep, and you could always while away the time by watching the dust play in the sunshine that came through the dusty screens and windows. Dust was just a Kansas fact of life. And then there were the dust devils. Sunny knew why they were called devils. Or he at least thought he knew. They towered above you and came at you with a vengeance, or they outran you if you tried to catch them. Sunny told the story about when he was a kid he jumped into a big one and it took him up in the air about ten feet. While he was up there inside the dust devil, he claimed the Devil appeared to him as an old cowboy, spitting tobacco juice and laughing at him and hooting like a screech owl, nearly scaring him to death. Then it dropped him down into the hog lot and spun off hooting and howling. Nobody believed him but he knew it was true. He had told the story long enough that he believed it. Sunny knew dust devils and dust and accepted them as part of his being. No use in trying to get rid of the ubiquitous. That was like swatting flies on the front porch. You swat one and another takes its place. You brush off the dust to make room for more dust. But one thing Sunny did was keep the dust off of his Indian.
At 54 years old, Sunny was a little stove up as he jumped onto the Indian, but he was in pretty good shape. He was a little self conscious about how he looked when he rode hoping that he didn’t look like “them Harley geezers” in Johnson County who never rode a bike in their life until they sold their business or got their Sprint buyout and had more money than they knew what to do with. Then they’d go out and buy a brand new Harley and get together with two or more of their ilk and off they’d go through Mission Hills with that “look at me” Johnson County attitude. “Johnson County assholes,” he thought to himself. In the old days they would never have made it. His grandpa had given him his first Indian, a 1942 Chief that he had bought from Army Surplus, brand new and still in the crate, covered with cosmoline, for $100.00. Back then you had to know the matchbook rules on how to keep your Indian running. You couldn’t just call the dealer on your cell phone and bitch because they couldn’t immediately pick up your bike. You had to know how to improvise and fix things or you went for a long walk. Sunny had gotten plenty of mechanical experience back in the 60’s when he rode from Kansas out to LA to pick up weed and acid. His bike had never failed him but there was always a situation or two where you were broke down out in Nowhere Land and had to rely on your wits to get going again. He laughed as he thought about when he used to drop a hit of window pane in each eye and take off riding non-stop through Kansas and on west to California. Laughing Sunny Day, they used to call him, but those days were long gone. He had other priorities now and it was high time he got on the road.
The Indian started on the second kick and Sunny was off, making his way North to I-70 and then East to Kansas City. The fringe on the silver trimmed, black saddlebags flapped and popped and the sun rode on the candy apple red gas tank. Sunny felt good being on the road as he cranked the handlebar accelerator up a notch. His Indian motorcycle boots were tucked into the side of the motorcycle. He never rode with his legs all splayed out like some guys did. Strictly ‘50’s. Just like a plate of food in a good restaurant, presentation was everything to Sunny. He even slicked his black hair back with Brylcreem into a ducktail so he would be more in a 1950-ish style. Sunny and the Indian settled into the ride, leaving the dogs and the dust devils behind.