“The King of Lusitan” by John Lewis
We left Tempe in Corey’s old beat-up Jeep and made our way through the Navajo reservation toward Canyon De Chelley. By noon, the desert relinquished all signs of the rainstorm which burst unexpectedly and violently, except for the sand, still wet, which looked bloody. Under high heat, the sky leaned in from its magnitude of cloudless blue, held only by the bright colors left on earth. Striking—to put it mildly.
We had no plan. It was Sunday. My girlfriend broke up with me at midnight; I think I failed my chemistry final on Thursday; and Corey had his ass kicked, then reversed, then kicked again by an eighteen-year-old in the cage last night.
“Your next fight is against Lip Ripper?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, Lip Ripper, but, you know, that’s not his official name. Jasen Minkey. Anyway, Lip Ripper, yeah. Three years ago, he had a string of three fights where he ripped part of his opponent’s lip off, you know? Yeah, just straight right off, das strachen! But that was three years ago, and anyway, it stuck, because it’s catchy.”
Corey’s face – a garden of freshly pulped pinks and purples, a few lacerations – looked exactly how I felt. Yet, I doubt there was introspection going on inside him.
The nicest guy you’d ever meet, he was also ten years older than me. Having dedicated his life to becoming a famous mixed martial artist, there wasn’t much on the horizon. A simple man of thirty-one that had gotten his ass scrambled by a kid last night, it was hard to say if Corey saw anything like a larger cosmic sign. Something saying: “Hey, time to plan chapter two.”
He never cussed. And I was never good at getting girlfriends. Which was why what I did last night was stupid: invite a classmate from my chem lab to come to the fight. She’s nice. Cute. But I had no motives. I just wanted the company.
Someone tapped my shoulder in the audience. I turned, surprised to see my girlfriend’s sister, Lexie, sitting behind us.
“Who’s your friend?” she asked.
I scrambled an explanation but stuttered into my native instincts—an idiot constantly bewildered. “She… um, my friend. But not… you know, someone from church, or class. My chemistry choir,” I winced, mixing my words. “We’re not together,” I said. “She’s an idiot.”
“Way to go, loser,” was all Lexie said.
My friend from chemistry class looked at me, not offended, but with pity — which somehow hurt more. I played those words all night in my head; I’d called the poor girl an idiot. But she wasn’t. I was. I’d thought it. Somehow it came out. And pronouns got mixed. At midnight, my girlfriend called from Vegas. There with friends for a weekend of drinking, she broke up with me in a few short words. I paced about the apartment, begging for another chance. But the laughter from her girlfriends grew louder over the phone. I felt it winning as she melted into their drunken reverie, our relationship fading anticlimactically. The line disconnected.
I wondered what story Lexie fed her, an inflated version with my arm around my classmate, making out I’m sure, drinking and whatnot. I chewed a popsicle stick to shreds, sick at the prospect of being single again —something that always took a long time to climb out of.
“I think I’m going to call off the fight against Lip Ripper,” Corey said.
Maybe he was thinking things over.
“Please don’t.”
Corey sighed. He took a handoff the steering wheel and rubbed his bald head. His strong forearms reminded me of orange wedges, how you see every fiber inside the translucent skin.
“No. Nope. No,” Corey sighed. The sound of his palm rubbing his shaved skin filled the car. “We’ll gas up in Chinnul, and you know, maybe go from there, like I think there’s that canyon you talked about.”
I nodded, my curly hair brushing my neck and shoulders. “It’s shin-lay not CHIN-uhl.”
“Right,” He looked at me and smiled, “wish I had your brains.”
We’d come this far without any music, but the mood changed, and Corey slipped a Rancid cassette into the tape deck. In half an hour, we converged on the loose collection of structures that made up Chinle. It was a small town of a few buildings with flat rooflines constructed in fabricated steel. There were some modular homes too, and all the dirt and dust seemed to overwhelm everything. The town’s profile was low, in deference to the desert.
The gas station, Big Rex, with its red awning and white eagle, stood at the main intersection. Every small town I’d ever been through had a cluster of shotgun brick buildings for a block or two; Chinle did not. It really didn’t have a center.
“I ever tell you I have Cherokee in my blood?” Corey said as we got out. “Yes sir,” and he thumped the hood of his Jeep.
I shook my head and looked around. There were a few people gassing up, but it wasn’t busy. In the distance, a shriveled man in dark clothes hobbled our way. He held a cane and tottered along slowly. I squinted in search of detail, but the heat was doing its wavy trick near the hot asphalt.
Corey filled the SUV and counted out some cash.
“I could use a Red Bull, or something, some kind of caffeine.”
He handed me some money.
“Get yourself something you want. Um, just get whatever’s cheapest for me, whatever’s on sale.”
The shade of the awning really brought out the purple in his face.
“What are you going to do, Corey?”
He considered it while placing several bills into my hand.
“I mean if you cancel the fight with Lip Ripper.”
Corey squeezed the pump and got it going. “Don’t know,” then shrugged, “Zie kalkenflurgen.”
Corey had a quirky habit of inventing German words.
He looked around and admired the location: the chalked heat of tan, the modest buildings and homes spread apart — like everyone needed elbow room. Corey stretched his arms. Yawned. “Maybe go for a long hike into the wilderness, sit under the stars and find my next spirit quest.”
I made for the store. Halfway there, the elderly man hobbling in the distance confronted me. Dressed in black, he must’ve been a hundred years old.
“How…” but I stopped short as an admiring grin formed to my mouth.
He was small, no bigger than a twelve-year-old boy. A black shawl hung upon his skimpy shoulders and he wore a mariachi hat with most of the silver decoration picked off. God almighty, I thought, it must be boiling under it.
“Hi.”
The old man said nothing. He tucked the shillelagh under his arm and reached into his tattered Big Rex plastic bag. Out came a small, pitiful handwoven basket with incomplete edges.
Illustration by John Lewis
My thoughts serialized…
a) I don’t have any use for this!
b) That’s not the point, dummy, just buy it!
c) Oh, I can’t use Corey’s cash, he meant it for caffeine!
d) All I’ve got is twenties… no way in hell I’m paying twenty bucks for a crummy basket!
So, I meekly apologized until he got the point and walked off. The thing was, the old man never looked me in the face. I lingered over him, because something inside felt tender, even broken, at the sight of those ancient eyes and the way his deep wrinkles divided his brown face into a turtle shell. What had he seen? What had his life been like? I wondered about kids, if he had any, or if he’d been married. He felt magical as if the desert spit him up to tell me something. Or maybe the desert was trying to tell me something to tell Corey. I couldn’t grasp why a centenarian would wander around the torched desert covered in black.
In the end, he was just a man. An old man. And this bothered me the most because all he wanted was five dollars for a crappy basket and I couldn’t deliver. I couldn’t stuff my pride and simply buy four of them. He had no magic. He was not from the magic. We were two persons, two particles in the cosmos, who happened to touch for fifteen seconds. And in that touch, there was no way to connect. I had more emotional access to Corey’s German Shepherd than that old man.
With all these thoughts tossing about my head, I stubbed the door transition and nearly tripped on the way into the store.
“Whoa, easy,” an overweight teen called from behind the counter.
I waved and said hello, asked him if there were any energy drinks on sale. I don’t know why I asked—because I couldn’t stop staring, I suppose. He must have been three hundred pounds, with a chest and stomach as big as a barrel. But his arms were so long and thin. A spider. He pointed me to the back. Then he pulled a toothpick from his ear and rolled it between his lips and tongue.
A stack of red coke boxes filled the end of one aisle. At the other stood a stack of blue and gold soda boxes. The color caught my eye. The logo, or crest, looked European and monarchist. On the price sign—$7.99 a pack—stood a silver shield with a red, two-headed dragon. Fight fascism with a can of Lusitan. I read the logo a few times. It didn’t make sense. The text below the crest bragged: Three Times the Energy. Three times the Smarts.
“New energy drink?” I hollered at the cashier, holding my thumb like a hitchhiker.
He chewed his toothpick. Nodded.
Beside the stack of cans stood a life-size plastic figure of an old king, practically drowning in the velvet of his royal robe. He held a gold, jewelry studded staff and wore an over-sized crown that rested barely above his eyes.
The promotion was quirky, offbeat in a way I liked, so I went to fetch a box for the road when the king moved and slapped my hand. I stumbled away, trying to settle my scrambled brain. The thing was alive, a real man.
“I wouldn’t worry about him,” the cashier said behind dull eyes.
Chew. Chew.
“Jesus Christ, I thought it was a mannequin.”
“You don’t recognize a great man when you see one?”
I stared at the King. He was old, but in a different way than the shriveled guy outside. This king, despite poor posture, towered with a look of importance. I mean, aside from the costume. His eyes, only half-open, bespoke battle-fatigue—the sort I saw from black and white films of Allied soldiers fighting the evils of the 20th century.
My brain returned to its serialization…
e) What startup uses a live model for a gas station?
f) How many stands like this are out there?
g) Do they hire only old, white men?
h) Is it a nine-to-five gig?
i) And it just doesn’t seem practical!
j) Plus… there’s the creepy factor…
“Hey, Cowboy!” the teen said, “Ground Control to Major Tom.”
The King began to pace back and forth in front of the glass refrigerator doors holding all the beverages. With regal authority, he plopped his heavy staff down at each deliberate step.
“We must vanquish Evil!” announced The King. PLOK! “Fight against Ignorance!” PLOK! “And rebuff Superstition!” PLOK!
The King carried on in a long string of platitudes, each morphing slightly from the last, working his way—I guess to the logo of the caffeinated, high-vitamin drink.
“…fight fascism with a can of Lusitan…”
“Does he do that all day?” I asked the teen.
He dropped his forehead into a scowl and shook his head. “Mostly, he just sleeps. I guess he woke up because something about you unsettled him.”
Probably that small Indian outside, or my girlfriend, or Corey’s fight career. Who knows?
The cashier cracked a smile and gently backhanded my arm. “I already told you, that’s a great man. You think he’s just a promotion, don’t you? I’m serious, Cowboy, that’s a great man.”
I looked at the cashier and saw a pleading sincerity in his eyes.
“He saved Lusitan from the fascists.”
“Never heard of Lusitan.”
“Small country in Europe.”
“Not ringing a bell.”
“Well, whatever, that’s the least of it.”
The cashier started into a lengthy story about The King in the back of Big Rex, how he’d been born to a poor, single mom in Newark. She drank and drugged, and the men who never stuck around beat him with a broom. The boy taught himself Greek and Latin, read the classics in their native tongue, then built a sloop and sailed the oceans on his own. He taught himself philosophies, religions, mathematics, and sciences. He wrote a book on economics, and biology, and probabilities. He built philanthropy organizations that raised millions for those in need.
The Portuguese woman he married had royal ties to the country of Lusitan, a small and haunting place high in the mountains with beautiful lakes. When their economy crashed, a neo-fascist party, a real blood-and-soil collection of skulduggery, ascended and murdered the king and queen. The Lusitans, a proud people, rich in tradition, appealed to the wife and her husband. Fearing this regime might permanently sack their nation, they plumbed the archives for any shred, and detail, any legalistic clause to endorse them to the throne.
He agreed—and their long-fought resistance to the fascists began. Seeking money, financial aid, they renewed international support, rebuilt the nation’s coffers, re-invested in civic infrastructure, trained a generation of enlightened citizens, and through unrelenting self-determination, completely de-legitimized the fascists. It was the triumph of intelligence, benevolence, and vigilance over bullying, narcissism, and ignorance. Even so, during this prolonged refutation of evil, his charities continued to pour millions upon millions into the dreams of downtrodden people everywhere.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s a true genius. A great, great man,” said the cashier, who having finished his story, threw his toothpick into the wastebasket.
“They make you say all that?” I asked. “It’s a lot. A twelve-pack for eight bucks sells itself.”
A scowl darkened his face, and he picked up a magazine.
“Are you going to buy anything?” he said.
I went back to The King, who continued to thump his staff with each platitude, and took a twelve-pack of Lusitan.
The king grabbed my wrist, his cold, knuckly fingers much stronger than expected. “You should learn to trust your fellows.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I did save Lusitan. But I could not save my mother. Young man… get off your auto-pilot. Maybe, every so often, you ought to give a damn!” said The King, a single brow arched accusingly.
My mouth hung empty.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered. The long fingers of his free hand spread like a kabuki fan.
He let go and I brought my drinks to the counter and paid. The cashier muttered something as I said goodbye.
Corey had his Jeep parked off to the side as he helped an elderly couple change their tire. I came over and handed him a warm drink, which he opened with a carbonated hiss.
“Here’s your money.”
Corey shook his head, “Keep it. I owe you for last weekend’s concert anyway.”
My friend tightened the last lug nuts on the couple’s sedan. They, too, tried to pay him, but he wouldn’t take it. The wife and husband thanked him, then left for the canyon to the east. I opened a warm Lusitan and sipped the tart drink. It tasted like blackberries and movie theater candy.
We decided against the canyon and instead headed north. Half an hour outside Chinle, still without a plan, we passed the small elderly man dressed in black.
“No. Fucking. Way,” I muttered.
“What?”
“That dude back there, that old man.”
“Yeah? You notice them too?” Corey said.
“Notice what?”
“We’ve been seeing them since we entered the reservation.”
“Seeing what?”
“Just these random old guys walking out in the desert. You know, they’re just there, and they’re all old, and wiry, tough as nails I’m telling you. I mean, you think me and the guys I fight are tough, but those old Indians walking around in the desert are the toughest men I’ve ever seen. The way they got all those clothes on. I’d be stroking out.”
Corey laughed.
“He tried to sell me a basket at the gas station.”
“That guy we passed? Not possible, brother. We’re too far…”
“I’m telling you, that was him. He wanted to sell me a basket and I didn’t want to use your money for it.”
“Shoot, I wouldn’t have minded. I gave it to you anyway.”
“I know, but still. It wasn’t my money at the time.”
“I’d spot you for a basket. You know that. Anytime.”
I sat on it for a bit.
“But it’s not the same Indian. It’s too far,” Corey said.
“Turn around. Let’s go check.”
Corey whisked his car in a U-turn, and we spotted the old man in his black shawl and black mariachi hat carrying the same shillelagh and plastic bag. We pulled over and jogged across the street, armed by intent and cash. I said hello and he ignored me. I said hello again. Corey asked if we could see his “nice” basket in the bag. I matched strides with the old man, which got me scratching my head because it was so labored and slow. “How the heck did you get all the way out here?” I asked, lost in admiration. I reached for his bag. The old man stopped and grunted. He pulled it away.
I could see it too, the unfinished rim with the yucca leaves poking out.
“I’d like to buy your basket.” And I collected a twenty-dollar bill from my jeans, which with a clammy hand was difficult to do.
The old man again pulled his bag away as I offered the bill. He looked at my money, smacked his lips, then took it and hid the cash inside the folds of his black clothing. I watched the bag, but he tapped his shillelagh several times and started to walk. Without looking at me, without even reaching for his basket, the old tortoise-faced man continued north.
Corey laughed—said we should get back to the car. “Time to go home,” he said, “The gods have spoken, and we’re pointed south now.” He slapped me on the shoulder in the direction of his Jeep.
“That little asshole stole my money.”
“What can you do?” he shrugged, “Let him have it.”
We returned to his parked car and started home. My ex-girlfriend was getting back from Vegas tonight anyway. Time to see if we were done-done, or just done.
“So, was that the same guy?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Huh.” Corey rubbed his bald head again. “Der guh-splennen.”
About John Lewis
He/Him/His
John Lewis co-founded and ran the Almagre Review, a Colorado literary journal, for three years. His writing and art have appeared in Spry Literary Journal, Chantwood Magazine, Phantom Drift, The Esthetic Apostle, and The Scarlet Leaf Review. His novel, Yankee Race, took second place in the Zebulon Competition at the annual Pikes Peak Writers Conference. His fiction typically deals with psychic fragility (not weakness, but a sensitivity to things), and its entanglement with the world. His is the story-telling of betas, not alphas… contrary to better advice. A gallery of his ballpoint pen art can be found at imageandnarrative.com