Written By: Joseph Baron-Pravda
An arthritic three-fingered trident of a blind man's hand motioned as if anciently sanctifying the stenographer. You'd have been surprised by the absence of his eyes so compelling were his blandishments, more paean than painful palaver. Her smile and the weird staccato of her lifeless keystrokes served as spare Greek chorus to his unmasking masque for six billion on the occasion of his last summer. And he would've surely crumpled up his rivulet-ridden craggy face into a wry smile at the very thought of the nautical symbol his remnant hand formed given his worship of the land, any land.
"It’s like I tole mah doc, afore he starts in to operatin, I says ‘You tole me ta let ‘em siphon some a me own blood, so I reckon I’ll be tellin me a tale what dead men can’t...’
They print em up in newsprint, them oh-bits, but that don’t make it true lest it be 'bout some Gov'ner an such, so write it up permanent so’s it won’t grow after like can happen to some dried up desert plant;
Now write this out plain, and put it down exact---none a that citfied blather I heard they calls ‘tact’:
I, Homer McCarty, was 90 and 5, here tell of my life while continuin to be what you calls alive;
I’ve heard on my record player some songs ‘bout mah one time home, Oklahoma, and how the wind come sweepin down the plain---
well, it sure as Hecuba done so, and didn’t stop sweepin til I come to California after bein made ta feel ‘bout as welcome as a elephant in a cornfield, the likes of which I never seen no how ‘cept in a zoo, or TV too, where the words people use are used as much there now as they are in Spain.
Funny thing, seein as how my mama was Mex and her daddy done told her, and then her told me, that the whole dang sou'west got deeded over at gunpoint by his folk
whose land they lived on were Mexico granted from the King a Spain to old President Polk.
My daddy’s people they from the Pecos Valley o’er in the old Mexican Territory that’s suddenly New
a place where some took kindly to William Bonney, their number 'twas few;
the name of the county, the biggest there was, Lincoln,
a hero to my kin for opposin their losin their land thanks to t'other President mentioned, a man bent on stealin what other folks owned without hardly thinkin.
Speakin 'bout stealin 'n such, I'll tell it to ya straight, how else wouldya know? Not from no hack writer nor movin picture show--back then you might say I knowed him well, the 'Kid', was there that night at the shanty my pap done built, and soon after that young man was kilt; Billy give him a look, Gov'ner Wallace what wrote out that Ben Hur book; well, the Kid weren't no murderer nor thief, just a orphan child what believed in an eye for and eye, lie fer a lie. Ole Trojan horse Wallace lures him there pretendin he was up on the higher law, in his dern book 'bout proper revenge for bein took. Lew Wallace knowed the Kid seen with his eyes the cold blooded killin of that English fella what took him in, Wallace sez 'Testify and I'll give you a full pardon..I'm willin.' Ha. Sez in The New York Times, June 29, 1902, kep me a copy, donatin it ta that new Gov'ner. So, next time you see that movin picture 'Ben Hur', tale a the Christ, just think on them what built up this land,
when they weren't no law 'cept that Bible 'n the Lord's righteous hand.
For sixty years I worked at buildin, you name it, I built it, and planted some trees
Oranges, mostly, till the movie men came and uprooted them trees to make movies about the Old West
Then sellin that land to those eastern dudes what they 'n they liars persuaded their sums to invest.
I built up their sign, one that’s still there, up on that hillside its letters we labored to raise till twenty five foot tall they stood
what used to spell ‘Hollywoodland’ now’s just Hollywood.
Lost two fingers tearin down the ‘LAND’, both on one hand,
I suppose it’s kinda sad, poetic justice they calls it who never built nothin or worked with they hands,
But land it’s too damn precious for such folks to understand--all the once wilding places where by us misunderstood kids such badlands was manned."
As she sat outside the Governor's office Homer's great-granddaughter's memory bank withdrew his last poetic words:
"So I hired me a lawyer, told her to will it in mah testament---that when that dang last summer wind comes sweepin down that hillside my carcass gits planted where once stood the LAND."
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Wrestling with such clearly pronounced wishes of their beloved if secretive kin, they wondered aloud how he might've felt about the morticians they'd settled on as they left the mortuary, one of those chains recently acquired by one of those self-effacing Japanese conglomerates, a subsidiary of SUNNY Pictures, the Hollywood studio. They'd dismissed the xenophobia in those parts since before the War about 'Japs' and how it was a front for that cult that gassed its own folks in that subway; besides, they thought he'd approve of the symbolism--sunny summer.
OBITZ UNDERTAKERS, LLC
Lovingly Lowered Cadavers
' Ya know, darlin, I can't believe he's finally...gone.'
' Golly, dern, that sounds awfully like relief 'steada grief! ' his great-granddaughter's muffled sob-speak, indignant already and in general, now at her usually obliging spouse. Determined to soothe her he summoned his high school thespian teacher's mien and played at speechifying tinged by sooth-saying. 'Shoot, no--funny, isn't it, though, that verb, 'shoot', makes me think of Billy the Kid, still a mystery, like the way that mortuary handled his case, right down to the rusted old metal urn.'
His role-playing seemed to perk her up and out of her pseudo-Cleopatric 'immortal longings' funk. ' I know, what with the Governor of our fair state of New Mexico bein involved, that part Indian fellow what they send over to keep that North Korean fella with the bad haircut under control, takin a hand in it and all; now that ah think on it--reflectin, they call it--I suppose it was all fittin and proper, seein as how the high desert hereabouts is kinda reflective, thanks to old Bobby Oppenheimer and his Little Boy, was it..you hear that? Crazy, my mind playin tricks, coulda sworn ah heard an explosion, felt a strong wind, huh..where was I? Oh, yes, his goin over there kinda like the pot callin the kettle black. Used ta camp 'round these parts, in his high school days, read it in the paper.'
Indeed, it was there, in the same edition that same date, with the obituary printed exactly as dictated to that stenographer, the very one who tore up her service's bill she was so taken with the oral history she'd proudly helped memorialize.
' Not surprised a bit, Heck, they let Northern Yankees camp out here why not Northern Ko-reans; you'd a thought it might've Americanized him, though--they say he likes our movies...an, read someplace he went ta school hereabouts. Anywho, I like ta think that deep down, the Guv, he knew, somehow, bein part Injun that some a that famous Kid was with Homer.'
'Coulda been one a them doubles, ya know; I reckon he is still a kid....likes Westerns, I hear tell..' He sat up erect, squinted his eyes and began to mimic the fanning of a six-shooter, then slumped down as though wounded by his own device. 'Speakin of Hollywood, I still don't know how they were able to find the scrap metal from that old sign--it's some kind of miracle' she marveled.
Cynicism of the sort he harbored silently when falsely complimenting his drama students couldn't help but be conjured. 'Yep, it was a miracle, alright......of marketing legerdemain' he mumbled Doppler-like.
'You're some spoilsport; why, the funeral director had that certificate of authenticity from that big studio 'n all, Heck, they keep all those props and such from all those movies. I even found one of the pairs of green slippers from that Oz movie right there in that truck stop, in Kansas! '
' Weren't they red?' He loathed gullibility in others.
'Nope, got a certificate with 'em, got it here somewhere.'
'I meant in the mo...never mind. I do love the way they have you write your own obituary, though. Hey, what say, we play that video tape of the whole ceremony, huh, like they said at the chapel' his head's pale skin seeming to act as that transparent ball atop a coffee percolator.
The CD tray slid open, then closed. "(STENTORIAN, WITH ORGAN MUSIC) ...and remember, we here at Obitz Undertakers, LLC undertake to 'lovingly lower corpses' deep in your heart of hearts by memorializing the momentous ceremony onto a modern compact disc, obviating the need for urns and such upon mantles, thereby avoiding pesky dusting and chances spillage, unless you've opted for the customized coffin, in which case you should disregard that part about the urns and such. Have a happy viewing experience.
Swansong of The Last Surviving Riveter of the Hollywoodland Sign
"It’s like I tole mah doc, afore he starts in to operatin, I says ‘You tole me ta let ‘em siphon some a me own blood, so I reckon I’ll be tellin me a tale what dead men can’t...’
They print em up in newsprint, them oh-bits, but that don’t make it true, 'specially 'bout some Gov'ner an such, so write it up permanent so’s it won’t grow afterwards like can happen to some dried up desert plant;
Now write this out plain, and put it down exact---none a that citfied blatherin, neither....' After a tearful rehearing, the CD smoothly emerged, reminiscent of the coffin upon the viewing table's rollers at the wake.
'Phew, that was something, prit near brings him right back to life.'
As if cued by some Hollywood director effecting the affect of a tornadic Homeric homage, the sound of the sort of strong wind known in the plains arose as if from the 'nowhere' trope in sappy Westerns.
'Hun, what....what in blazes?!'
A cacaphony of glass breaking and silicate scratching at its former window shade was heard.
' Blazes, more like dang tornadoes...You sta....stay here!' he manned up and out.
Crunching glass underfoot accompanied him on his return trip to the living room. 'Good lord! They's a big ole fan settin in our front yard, real huge, like they use in them movies, seen 'em in one a them 'The Making of' deals....Why, they musta took literal-like that part 'bout scattering his ashes over land, dang Japaneasy peasy, 'stead a where that took down part of the sign was, in Hollywood; an, an 'taint all, neither; now, take a deep breath, will ya?' His outstretched right hand pumped the air in a downward direction.
'Wha, what is it?!'
'Those slippers, the green ones, they're...gone.'
Almost in unison, their heads turned to the collector's edition of the poster for 'The Wizard of Oz' Japanese version Homer had brought back after the war.
Falling into her divan's plump cushioning, hand over her heart she muttered: 'Always hated them flyin monkeys........'
'Cut! Print it.......' the director shouted, his accent slightly choppy, eastern.
'Ozzy' Yashima had met Homer during the hasty construction of his family's internment camp one fateful summer. Fascinated by his tales of Billy the Kidd in the badlands and repeatedly watching 'The Wizard of Oz' as one of the few luxuries afforded--and hating the racist remarks muttered by the white staff about flying Jap monkeys--this was his thank you to Homer McCarty, the only white man to speak--and punch--out against his co-workers whenever he heard them. But it was another tale he'd heard from Homer that had traveled that dusty road back to freedom and film school and, ultimately there to Lincoln County, New Mexico.
Along with the nickname Homer had given him, Ozzy had kept it, that photostat of the yellowed newsprint that Homer had carried with him all those years, dated June 29, 1902, with a hand-written note roughly printed in the margin: 'Between that Summer, you 'n me they's been a whole mess a ground covered..jus remember, land it’s too damn precious for such folks as guvners 'n guvments to understand--all the once wilding places where by us misunderstood kids such badlands was manned. Your Fren, H. 'Kid' McCarty."