10th March 2004, early evening | Comments (20)
Tucson, Arizona, USA ~ April, 2002.
About 200 metres from Molly’s house in Tucson, her road is brought to an abrupt end as it meets the high banks of the Rillito river. Standing at this intersection you can look straight down into its dried bed, replete with scrub, discarded plastic chemical drums, and the odd abandoned car. A glance to the left, up stream, puts you face to face with the Catalina Mountains, while looking right affords a glimpse of an old Mormon adobe church, tucked away behind the trees.
On my first evening in Tucson I’d gone exploring and had found myself at the edge of this river, wondering at its dryness, and questioning the use of a channel 150m wide and 20m deep in what is essentially a desert. (Flash floods, is apparently the answer.)
As I stood there I was hailed by a skinny old man from the trailer park to my right. He seemed to be taking great delight in hopping up and down in his socks and shouting There ain’t no water in that there river, boy! I say, there ain’t no water there! HAW HAW!!
again and again.
Strange man, I thought, and having thrown a placating smile at him strolled off in the opposite direction to that of M.’s house. The last thing I wanted to do on my first day was lead sock-clad lunatics to her front door.
The next time I returned to the spot — this time with my camera — my new friend recognised me and took the opportunity to reiterate that there ain’t no water in that there river.
I told him I’d remembered his advice from last time and so hadn’t brought my trunks, but as he didn’t know what ‘trunks’ were, the remark was rather lost on him.
After five minutes of alternately watching me take photos and calling out his River Monologue he changed tack slightly and asked if I wanted to sit on his porch and have a beer. At first I declined — our short acquaintance hadn’t endeared him to me as a drinking buddy — but then, as so often happens when I’m travelling, I had the “well, when else are you going to get to do this?” thought. So, I put my camera in my pocket, opened his chain-link gate and went and sat with him a while.
My name’s Jim.
Mine’s Dunstan. How you doing Jim?
Why, I’m fine, thank you.
And who’s this little dog… er, attached to my leg?
Why that’s Milly, ain’t she cute?
She? But she’s got a pe… Oh. Yes. Yes, she is cute, Jim. Delightful.
Jim and Milly (how did he not know it was a male dog?) had lived in their trailer for six years, ever since moving in from California (Too much sand there, I had to get away.
) He worked from 6am to 12am every day at a hotel (Real classy, not some rectangular square box like the rest of them
), then walked home and sat on his porch, drinking beer and looking at the mountains until he went to bed.
His pride and joy was a 64in TV with 120 channels and 7 speakers. It came with a huge remote control, and occasionally, in the dark, he’d press the wrong button and the whole thing would get messed up to hell.
Apart from (the possibly hermaphroditic) Milly, Jim’s best friends were the tiny birds that lived in his cactus and drank out of the leaky garden tap. In his spare time he liked to abduct tourists whom he lured onto his porch with the promise of beer.
Jim asked me what I was doing in Tucson and I explained I was building a web site for a friend:
You can do that!?
Yes, it’s not so hard once you’ve worked it out.
No, no, it is! Wow. You are an amazing individual did you know that?!
Really? Are you sure?
Yes! That is incredible, you’re amazing.
Oh, well thank you Jim… um, you’re amazing as well.
Do you know Dunstan, you are one of the most fascinating people I have ever met.
Oh…
No really, you are. I’ve never had anyone this interesting on my porch.
Gosh, thanks Jim. You, um, you have a beautiful home.
Why thank you. You wan’ another beer?
It was a picture-book moment — the camradery, the mountains, the sunset, the transgender dog humping my leg… lovely.
Later on Jim gave me the low-down on what to do in and around Tucson, strongly suggesting I go to Tombstone near the Mexican border. I said I was a bit stuck as I didn’t have a car:
Well that’s not a problem, I’m free Tuesdays and Wednesdays, you come over here and I’ll drive you to all those places.
Crumbs, that’s very kind of you Jim, um… Jim, can you stop Milly doing that, please?… thanks, so, um, yes, that’s very kind of you Jim, but we’re working flat out over there so I don’t think I’ll get the time. But thank you, that’s a very kind offer.
After a couple more beers I said goodbye and wandered home, leaving Jim on his porch to figure out his monster-sized remote control, and Milly by the fence to figure out her shitsu-sized erection.
The people you meet, eh?
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