10

I was on yet another desert highway, when I came across a rather odd-looking obelisk situated by the side of the road. It stood alone in the desert. No reference points to why it was where it was. It had the following inscription:

We followed the path that went by the sea. The grass was high and was golden brown. The breeze from the sea moved the grass in waves. There were clouds in the sky, white castles that beckoned. The path led to the sky. We walked in single file. There were hundreds of us, no thousands, maybe millions. There was no way of knowing. But as we approached the upper limit of the sky…we began our walk across the universe.

A mile farther down the road was another obelisk. This read:

The open air is not what it used to be. It’s not as crisp and clear as it was two thousand years ago. The open air is now haunted by voices from the past and wretched deeds and wretched people.

Yet another mile:

We passed beyond the boundaries of the upper atmosphere and entered into the cold, dark reaches of outer space. What look like a multi-colored ribbon floating in the breeze stretched out in front of us as far as the eye could see. We did not hesitate. We began walking on it, not afraid of where it might lead.

And yet another mile:

On the third day there arose a cloud of dust and it covered the streets of the town and all the structures on the streets. The townspeople were in disarray and wandered incoherently through the backstreets and alleyways. It was as if darkness had descended upon the face of the deep. All hope was lost.

And the final obelisk (at least the last one I came upon):

The messengers rode through the hills and valleys of the countryside. Their horses moved swiftly. They rode for many miles without stopping. Finally, they reached their destination. By then, though, they had forgotten their message.

Desert roads around here aren’t much, in fact, they’re barely discernible. And there’s so much open space, a road can exist almost anywhere you want it to. You don’t have to worry about getting stuck in the mud. Soggy sand from flash floods dries up as fast as the flooding is itself precipitated. But the road I was on did have recognizable tracks, so I keep trudging.

I arrived at a most fascinating place.

The sign read: Rent-A-Burro. Manuel was on duty and I asked him the specifics of renting a burro for twenty-four hours. I explained I wouldn’t be coming back this way so what would I do with the burro when I was finished renting him.

“No problem, Senor. We have Rent-A-Burro centers located all over this region of the country. You can leave him at the one most convenient for you.”

I was a little puzzled, “Just how will I find one of these centers?”

“That’s easy, Senor. The burro will tell you.”

“You mean he gives signals of some kind?” I was more than a little puzzled now.

“No, Senor, our burros talk. English or Spanish. Whichever you prefer.”

“What? You must be joking.”

“No, Senor, we never joke about our burros. They are our livelihood.”

“I’ll have to see this for myself.”

“I don’t blame you, Senor. Please wait here.”

Manuel walked out a side door, and in a few minutes came back leading a burro.

“This is Paco.”

What the heck, I might as well play along with the gag, “Hello, Paco.”

The burro answered back, “Hello, Sir. I presume that you prefer I speak English.”

A lot of what happens to me I can’t explain. This falls into that category.

Along with Paco, I also was given a sombrero and a serape. The former to deal with the bright sunshine of the day and the latter to deal with the unexpected cold of the desert night.

I paid Manuel full rental price. This should be quite a journey.

Paco turned out to be a good companion. He only spoke when spoken to. We came to a rise on a hill and laid out before us was a golden valley. A fortified town was situated in the middle of the valley. There was a large stream running just west of the town.

I told Paco to head toward the stream. I’m sure he needed water. The Rent-A-Burro center had provided us with plantains for Paco to eat but no water. When we got to the stream, Paco drank thirstily. I gave him a few plantains to eat. He seemed satisfied.

I asked him, “What is the name of this town?”

“It is called Ninevehville.”

“Interesting name. What is known for?”

“Wickedness.”

I decided Paco and I would skip Ninevehville. There would be other towns up ahead, perhaps ones not quite as wicked.

The next morning, we had breakfast at a cantina. Paco ate oats outside while I ate inside. It was a good arrangement and Paco didn’t seem to mind. I had about twelve more hours on the rental, so we left soon after eating. No siestas today.

Paco had been working for Rent-A-Burro for the last seven years. He had a special arrangement with the management and only worked six months of the year. The other six months he devoted to missionary work bringing the gospel to talking burros in South America.

Gospel means good news. What’s good news to a burro?

That’s a question I should have asked Paco at the time we were together, but it was only in retrospect that I thought of it.

Apparently, talking burros disappeared with the advent of talking movies. The ones that remained were used to dub for the silent stars whose voices were either weak or nondescript. When the silent stars quit making movies of any kind, the talking burros all went to live in the hard-to-get-to, hidden recesses of the Andes Mountains. They remain there 
today (whenever today is, of course.)

Nothing much to say about the final hours riding Paco. I asked him what his favorite desert landscapes were and he said they all looked the same to him. I didn’t tell Paco what his future held but I’m sure he would enjoy voice work in an air-conditioned Hollywood studio. In a few years, that is. Silent movies weren’t dead yet.

I dropped him off, along with the sombrero and serape, at a Rent-A-Burro center in the village of San Lupe. While I enjoyed the ride, I didn’t plan to do it again.

San Lupe had a mission dating back to the early 17^th century. It was still in operation, though somewhat modernized for the early 20^th century. It made wine from its own extensive vineyards. It did so well in fact, the priest drove a luxury automobile, a 1919 Packard. He also had his own radio show where he read out loud Saint Augustine’s ‘City of God’. But wait a minute. I’m still in 1920 and commercial radio is still in its infancy. The priest’s radio show won’t start until 1922. If this was a cheesy science-fiction paperback, I would give the priest a hint or a suggestion about how it was a good idea to start a radio program. But one thing though, if I did so, I would probably suggest a different format. Nothing against St. Augustine but something more modern might be better well-received by the public.

The priest was a friendly fellow. Besides driving his Packard, he also enjoyed playing a round of golf. He invited me to go with him and visit the ‘Green’ family. It was a very large family, to say the least. It turned out to be a delightful day and I very much enjoyed meeting all 18 members of the family.

The priest also had his own cattle ranch so for supper that night we had steaks and wine. Several nuns joined us.

I was thinking about staying here permanently but that was out of the question. Still had a long way to go and several time periods to explore.

Somebody made sure I didn’t give into the temptation of hanging around for more golf, steaks, and wine. Next thing I knew it was 1935 and I was in a hobo camp in the middle of the Great Depression.

We weren’t far from a train track. A train went roaring by only a few minutes after I had arrived.

A hobo named Joe invited me to sit by the fire. It was a wintry night and tiny snowflakes were falling.

Joe said, “I’d offer you a three-course meal but the only meal I’ve had lately is oatmeal.”

I replied, “That’s OK, I just finished off a T-Bone steak accompanied by a sparkling rose’”

Joe laughed. “You’re alright.”

“Joe, is there a town near here? I might be able to get us a few groceries.”

I don’t think Joe believed me at first but when I came back an hour later with a sackful of canned goods, his face perked up.

“Why, I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“You got any buddies nearby who might want to share a meal with you. Don’t worry, I’ll replace this bag and more if you run out.”

Joe whistled and a couple of fellow of hobos appeared out of the dark. They had been under a cover of some kind, but it had stopped snowing.

Joe said, “Ah, dammit, we need a can opener.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out one, “Here you go.”

“You think of everything.”

The opened cans were heated over the fire. They ate heartily. While they were eating, I went back to the store and bought some more groceries. This time I bought two bags.

“You must be some kind of messenger from God.”

I didn’t confirm it but I also didn’t deny it.

“I’m just a guy like you are. Been down on my luck before and I know what it’s like. It may take a couple of years, but you’ll be back on your feet again.”

“Do you think FDR is doing the right thing?”

“Yes and no. Don’t mean to sound mysterious but some questions are too hard to answer.”

“Well, we have plenty of time to discuss these things. Too much time, really. But we think he’s doing as good a job as possible for any man.”

I said, “Nothing wrong with positive thinking. You have a lot to be upset about but you understand that complaining will do no good.”

I then asked, “Do you have any inkling when the next train comes by.”

“Why, do you plan on jumping on it?”

“That’s the idea.”

“It moves pretty fast.” Joe looked me over. “You sure you’re up to it?”

I smiled, “Never felt better.”

“Well, alright, but it’s at least another hour before one comes back by. You might as well take a seat and listen to some of our stories.”

They were good stories. Joe had been a successful businessman but lost everything in the stock market crash of 1929. He had tried every trick in the book to get his business back off the ground, but nothing worked. Finally, he had given up and joined the Hobo Trail. The other two men had similar stories. And there were thousands more just like them all over the country.

At some point, I heard the roar of the train as it was bearing down on our location. I said my goodbyes and raced over to the track. As the train raced by, I calculated what I needed to do to successfully hop onto the train. 1, 2, 3…