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OLD TIMER CHRONICLE
On the Obamathon Perch II
by Cloyd Campfire
October 2008
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In memory of
Jesusita, who was the housekeeper
of Padre Gallegos, the pastor
of Albuquerque, New Mexico,
around 1850
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“Here’s something I think you’ll find interesting, ” said I.
I handed to Davy the e-mail piece from someone called Shannon. Davy read it outloud:
“I think the average guy could understand that Phil Gramm, McCains financial advisor, is largely responsible for this banking crisis.
“The Gramm-Leach-Bliley act in 1999 ~ passed by the Republican controlled Senate ~ took away all the laws put in place after the Great Depression that regulated banks and securities.
“McCain voted for this act and has always been on the fore front for de-regulation in the Republican Senate.”
We both peered up at each other at the same time.
“When did this come in, Cloyd?” said the illustrious editor.
“About a month ago,” said I, his right-hand man.
He mused, “About a month ago?” Then he hollered, “Why didn’t I see this a month ago???”
I stammered.
Then Jesusita strolled out the entry of my hovel which was hid behind a hanging blanket. She sashayed into the editor’s crumbling rock-wall office, handed me a cup of hot coffee. To say the least, she was looking good. To say a little bit more, she was looking too good ~ seeing as she was wearing one of her elaborately-embroidered belly-dancing outfits.
“I’ve been courting,” admitted I.
“No no no!” admonished Davy. “Don’t you know Jesusita is already wed to the devil?”
“No. He didn’t know that,” snapped Jesusita. “But he does now. Thanks a lot, Crockett.”
“She’s also a right-winger gone gung-ho ‘cuz McCain picked Palin, a woman, for his vice-president nominee,” spoke-up the graphics editor, Martha Morningstarofthevalley, sitting cross-legged on a blanket in the corner, suddenly alert. Martha had been communing with the Indian spirits of the cliff-dwelling all morning long, while grinding acorns that she had shelled the day before, for the special acorn cakes she was going to make for Davy Crockett Reincarnated’s birthday tomorrow.
Incidently, the ghost of Padre Gallegos, Jesusita’s boy-friend from about 150-years ago, had finally caught up to today’s phenomena but didn’t say anything. The ghost simply watched from the ceiling.
“I don’t care,” said I. “I love her.”
Jesusita smiled. She smiled with her entire body. Being a prosaic dancer, she knew how to do such a thing. Finally, Crockett smiled too, paternally so, and spread-out his arms like the wings of a bold, keen-eyed eagle. He proclaimed, “I wish you both a bright and happy future.”
“Oh God help us,” murmured Martha in the corner. She rolled her eyeballs.
“You know, Martha,” squirmed Jesusita, “You ought to be a right-winger. You could go to Sarah Palin political rallies & be one of her beloved ‘pit-bull’ followers. You could scream obscene epitaphs against Obama & be cheered. In fact, you can go with me to the next one around here. What do you say?”
Martha nonchalantly grinded her acorns. “No thank-you, Jesusita. McCain’s rabid cheerleader can carry-on without me on her bridge to no-where.”
“Ah come on, Martha,” slyly encouraged Jesusita. “When McCain starts World War III and then dies from his ancient Vietnam War captivity wounds, won’t you want to follow America’s new Joan of Arc, who of-course will be, that’s right, Sarah Barracuda?”
“No thank-you, Jesusita. I’ll stick with Obama who does community work with ex-terrorists like the old ‘weatherman,’ Ayers. By the way, is the Bush family still capering about with the Bin Ladens?”
“No,” said Jesusita. “Ever since the Bushes found out Mr. Bin Laden’s son, Obama, oops, I mean Osama, was a terrorist, they’re leaving their chair empty at the Bin Laden dinner table. They’re saving it for ~ Obama.”
“Well,” said Martha. “The Bin Ladens will probably be real pleased with the next president of the United States, seeing as Obama’s the one who will probably capture that wayward offspring of theirs. George Bush is so enept at that. But Bush & his neo-conservative helpers, with their greed & cronyism, are swell grave-diggers when it comes to helping Osama bin Laden bury the American Empire. Let’s see, isn’t McCain on that team?”
“Kind of,” admitted Jesusita. “He’s the one with all the experience, unlike Obama, who has no experience.”
“You’re so right,” agreed Martha. “Obama has absolutely no experience at being a robber baron like all your heros. How many houses does McCain own now? About eight, is it?”
Jesusita shrugged.
“I tell you what,” said Martha. “Give Obama six weeks in the White House and he’ll put all your Republican good old boys to shame with his intelligents, integrity, judgement, morality, constitutional awareness, inclusiveness, common sense, and sense of fair play.”
Jesusita picked up a pottery shard that was serving as a paper weight on the editor’s desk, which was a tipped-over aluminum bucket with a notebook atop it. She threw the chunk of by-gone Indian culture at the graphics editor.
Martha ducked.
“You’re so violent, Jesusita,” smiled Martha. “I guess you fit in real good at those divisive Sarah Palin rallies. Maybe you ought to go with me to an Obama get-together where we believe in equality instead of low wages and high rent. It might soothe you.”
“Oh, no thank-you, Martha, I, I, oh no, I’m crying.” And that she was ~ for the first time in Jesusita’s 150 years or so of being wed to the devil, the wedding of which occurred in a spiritual sense in old New Mexico when she took a spoonful of folk cure for a fatal illness. She had been cured, but cursed ~ with eternal life on earth rather than in heaven. But now tears cascaded down her cheeks for the first time in her long long servitude to Satan. The tears fell & fell & fell. And Jesusita began to shiver.
I ran for a blanket & draped it across the bare curve of her trembling shoulder. Martha ran for another blanket and with it reinforced Jesusita’s newfound woolly cocoon of warmth. But a transformation was occurring that could not be stopped.
“I came to disrupt things here,” blathered Jesusita, her pretty pretty face submerged in a sea of tears. She cried out, “But now I find I want to join you!”
“Get along, madam! Get along, madam!” gritted Crockett. “We must get to work on this e-mail from Shannon. This financial advisor of McCain’s, with that bill he passed in ’99, seems to be causing the economic collapse of the United States of America. We have to stop this laggard Gramm from sneeking his influence into the White House. We have to lock-out him & McCain with an avalanche of votes for Obama!”
But Jesusita, la bonita bonita, couldn’t “get along” anything. Her hair turned grey. Her skin crinkled & wrinkled. She shrank like a juicy plum into a dried-up resin ~ to about the size of a small monkey ~ and died.
I cannot describe the anguish I felt ~ as I picked-up her pitiful little corpse in my two hands & peered down at it. One of its eyelids was cocked & a dead eyeball balefully stared back at me.
I felt Martha’s hand on my shoulder. She said, “C’mon, Cloyd. We have to get back to work.”
It was then that I went clairvoyant ~ and saw a little butterfly of light expel itself from the corpse. This, this light fluttered toward the ceiling of the cliff-dwelling & seemed to join hands with another butterfly of light up there, and fluttering together, they disappeared ~ I presume beyond the veil.
“It’s over,” said Martha. “C’mon, Cloyd. It’s over!”
I bowed my head, fervantly prayed for one aghast moment, then brought-up my head & looked around. “Where’d Davy go?” inquired I.
He was gone.
Martha & I ran outside, came to an abrubt halt and saw ~ as I gently rocked the crumbling corpse of my lost love. We saw ~ we saw ~ Merlo 7’s saucer ricochet off a cloud here, a cloud there, and up the invisible vortex ~ gone. Davy Crockett Reincarnated, the illustrious editor of the mysterious Old Timer Chronicle & pal of the ancient astronaut, along for the ride ~ gone.
“Why do we call it ‘mysterious’?” said I.
“What?” said Martha.
We both stood there up a secret passage of the Mogollon Rim on the edge of ~ the Obamathon Perch. We gazed thoughtfully into the Arizona tantalizing blue.
“Why, Martha, why do we call the Old Timer Chronicle ‘mysterious’?” clarified I.
“Because, Cloyd, we can’t afford to print it. All we can afford are e-mails.”
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Old Timer Chronicle I 