Cracking the Exterior

   

 

We are following a grain train into the West, a boho-colored sunset, ribbons of orange, pink and purple flutter before us, enticing. It’s 55 degrees at 5PM on the way from Las Cruces, NM, to Willcox, AZ, a familiar boondocking spot, where we first encountered forty thousand raucous, dancing Sandhill cranes. When we woke this morning, we thought we’d go for a hike on Elephant Butte and then soak in  a nearby hot spring. The Universe had other plans.

We had landed the night before at Prehistoric Trackways National Monument in New Mexico. We slept with coyotes and rattlesnakes as our neighbors. In the morning, Kobi, our infamous traveling cat, sang his usual opera, begging dramatically to be let out. It had been 26 degrees during the wee hours and I was reluctant to leave our cozy bed. Kobi always wins, eventually. I donned my hat, gloves and winter coat, put on his vest and leash, yes, he walks on a leash, and out we went. After a few minutes an enormous, black and white spotted Great Dane appeared around the corner. Kobi nearly had a heart attack and flew back into the RV. I gazed at the Great Dane, whose name I later found out was Hela, after the Nordic Goddess, and at her parents and her furry, short, black brother.

I initially saw their car when we had parked the previous night and had wondered where they slept. They peaked my curiosity. The guy had neck and face tattoos, an enormous, sheathed knife, a red bandanna and an army coat with a Military Police patch. The young woman with him was also tattooed, had ripped jeans with sunflowers all over, a rainbow belt, Pokemon strap around her neck that held a slew of keys and a plethora of colors in her hair. I asked them where they were from and they said here and everywhere. Johnny had a great, friendly smile, a deep baritone, raspy voice and a pipe. Yes, he sang. He looked like a country Western star. I liked him immediately and was drawn in horror and curiosity to what I thought was a tattoo on his finger of the SS symbol. I was so thrown by the contradiction, but felt I needed to know more before delving into all that.

I learned that Johnny had bean beaten for being a "Nazi Kraut" and a Mexican. He was German and a Mexican, his grandfather had been in the SS officer, his dad part of the Hitler youth. He was wearing his ring which was engraved with a skull, the words Himmler and Wolff (Hitler's nickname) and a swastika. The date October 19, 1933 or 1939 was engraved on the inside. Johnny was a Buddhist who served in the Iraq war.

He left home at age 11 after being raped by his Southern Baptist Pastor. His parents were alcoholics. His dad broke young Johnny's nose several times. Johnny was selling his guns from the trunk of their car in order to have some money. I told him about myself, an Israeli Jew with a German Grandmother who converted  to Judaism, oh yes, and here is my wife, Rachel. He was so happy to meet us. He congratulated us on our recent nuptials. 

Huh?

I had to photograph him in all of his complicated contradictions. Hearing about his current homeless state, I wanted to give him whatever he needed. He was so grateful. We got to hear about his 25 year old girlfriend, Charley. Johnny was 44. They had escaped their brutal respective families in Georgia and were living in a tent.She had been raped by her mother’s boyfriends since she was 3 years old. She couldn’t have children. Charley’s family told the police that Johnny had kidnapped her. She was driving her own car. She said they only had each other in the world. Yes, she was with him by her own volition. Nonetheless, they had been stopped by the police often. 

We gave them some tangerines, goat’s milk, bananas, avocados, tuna cans and made them grilled cheese sandwiches. We gave them some money. We would have given them anything they would have wanted.
When I meet people who survived violence and abuse, I just want to give them respite, love and show them that not all humans are assholes.  They gave us a mounted Jackalope head. We hung Jackie in Ruby, our RV. I feel like I took a step towards red-neckery. Or towards my father who was a taxidermist.

They introduced us to Jimmy, a veteran who lives around the corner on the hill. He had a beat up truck, PTSD, was a recovering alcoholic who had tried to hang himself because his platoon brother got killed when Johnny stepped on a double landmine and his brother/friend/soldier pushed him off and sacrificed himself. Yikes. Johnny was trying to forgive himself for what he believed was his fault: his brother’s death. He was the Godfather of the guy’s daughter. Johnny felt  he didn’t deserve to see her. He didn’t deserve anything good. 

He sharpened our knives. They needed that badly.  He wasn’t hungry so we couldn't feed him. He created 2 wire heart pendants for us. He cried when we hugged him and gave him some money, made him a cup of coffee and offered a banana. 

We learned  from Jimmy that eating Kangaroo rats tasted like coal because you can’t get rid of their hair except by burning the crap out of them, but they provide protein. Rattlesnakes are good but currently it’s too cold outside so they aren’t around. Too cold for snakes, yet our new friends slept outside. No heaters. My privilege crimsoned my face. Jimmy advised us not to eat the rabbits because they have wolf disease. You will see scabs if you skin them, he added. There’s always cacti to eat. If you are going to sleep outdoors in that area, dig down 18 inches. Don’t build a shelter. It’s warmer below.

I asked why he wasn’t teaching survival skills. He answered that the county required that you had teach the first class on safety. It had to be indoors. You needed money to make money. That’s the way to keep the middle class scared and productive. Make sure you have a poor and working class in place.

I asked J, J and C if they can explain why the local Walmart sells hog heads. We had seen huge crates full of them. They said that people use the meat for tamales. I wonder if all the white shoppers at Trader Joe’s know what part of the pork in tamales comes from.

We told them about the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous and Home on Wheels Alliance, the organization that helps folks thrive in their vehicles. We invited them to join us at the big gathering in Quartzsite, AZ later in January. We exchanged info and hope to see them in the near future. I realized when you don’t have food, you probably don’t have the gas money to drive 16 hours. Charley’s work at Dunkin' Donuts and Johnny’s military pension didn’t allow for housing, food, gas and a phone. 

Three new friends, three brutal lives. This is what can happen when you live in a tin can. I just had to learn how to quiet my mind at night as it was processing the Mexican Nazi whom I called brother and hugged close, holding his swastika-ed hand.