‘A Three-Dollar Cup of Coffee’

Anosh Aibara is a passionate writer, photographer, filmmaker and theatre professional based in Mumbai, India. His work has been published in several visual and literary art journals and his latest short film Pigeons, was an official selection at the Message to Man International Film Festival, in St. Petersburg, Russia.

A Three-Dollar Cup of Coffee

     Spencer Bigelow, Spence to those who knew the fifty-two-year old rancher (and most everyone in Dos Pesos knew him…all too well), sat alone in the booth in the far corner of the La Sombra Café. He wasn’t all that eager to be so far away from everyone. Not at all. Spence was gregarious by nature. It just so happened that, thanks to his wife’s sage advice, he’d be wise today to stay clear of others in the café. It was a shame. Spence liked most folks. He. in no way, was going out of his way to be standoffish. Far from it. On this particular day, he just had a load on his mind, what with his daughter’s troubles and the fence near the south gate of his property in need of repair. Then there was Miss Luanne’s admonition that since he was dressed so shabbily he’d be wise to avoid being seen by anyone who might recognize him as her husband. She was only kidding, he hoped.

     The rancher’s dusty, scuffed ropers tapped to the beat of an old Johnny Bush song on the jukebox against the far wall of the room, a straight-forward two-stepping tearjerker he could get the gist of (some poor sap licking his wounds after being jilted by an evil Jezebel) but, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the title. It was a tune that he’d heard a thousand times, years ago, a lively ditty that he liked at the time and used to dance to with Miss Luanne back in their dancing days, but for some reason the name of the dad burn song just wouldn’t pop into his mind.

     I must be gettin’ old, thought Spence. Me and Luanne loved that dang song. Heck, it was a favorite. By God, we’ve got to come into town more often, and, what the hell, kick up our heels at the Green Tree Bar and Grill like we used to. I can’t see why we ain’t done so in so long, not since before Tamantha was born. We ain’t gettin’ no younger, that’s for sure, and so, by golly, we’re gonna do it, whether Miss Luanne likes it or not, just as soon as we get that daughter of ours squared away. 

     Spence’s weathered and worn denim jacket, a constant embarrassment to his wife, was more than just a little too warm inside the local hangout, about the only place in town to get a halfway decent plate of Mexican food, but the shirt he had on under the jacket, a plaid flannel work shirt that he’d yanked out of the dirty clothes hamper in his bedroom that morning, much to Miss Luanne’s disgust, had a tear in the left elbow as well as an unsightly oil stain across the shoulder. The tattered jacket would have to do for now; he just had to stay out of sight—Luanne’s orders. She didn’t want any husband of hers looking like some kind of a homeless vagabond. It was her idea, he mumbled, that I sit in the damn corner where no one would get a good look at me…or close enough to get a whiff of me.  

     I feel like a goddamned fool, mumbled Spence to no one but himself. Three bucks for a damned cup of coffee. Holy moly. If Pop knew that folks, hell, folks right here in Dos Pesos, Texas, would ever be willin’ to shell out that kind of dough for a lousy cup of coffee he’d sit right up in his coffin and cuss the lot of ‘em. Luckily, the old man kicked off before he had to witness the day when his fellow townsfolk would be so damned foolhardy to fork over hard-earned money just to mosey around in here and idle their afternoons away. Hell, just take a look around this place. More than a dozen people, white folks and Mexicans alike, at two in the dadgum afternoon, lollygaggin’, as if they ain’t got nothin’ better to do with their time. Things didn’t used to be this way. No siree Bob. People used to have a helluva lot more gumption. They used to work for a livin’. 

     And, for Christ’s sake, who am I to bitch and moan about the folly of others? There was that time last year in that Starbucks over there in San Antonio. Spence chuckled then shook his head. My God, Pop wouldn’t believe it if he was to get an eyeful of me in a place like that. Who would’ve guessed that there could be so many nitwits naive enough to get themselves hornswoggled in some snazzy gyp joint where you get a goddamned half-warm cup of coffee in a flimsy paper cup, and for no more than a mere fortune? Yet, that damned fancy-schmancy coffee shop was packed, I’ve got to admit it. More folks than you could shake a stick at shellin’ out perfectly good money hand over fist just to be seen with a bunch of other gomers willin’ to make total suckers of themselves. But, what the hell, there I sat that day, big as life, drinkin’ some creamy godawful frothy concoction with the rest of ‘em, like there’d be no tomorrow, all because Miss Luanne had to give the place a try. “We’re here in the city,” she ‘d said. “We might as well give it a try. Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. Have a little fun for a change.” Shoot, she brews up a hell of a lot better coffee at home, better than this piss in this damn place. I swear, folks these days, most of ‘em at least, ain’t got the good sense they were born with. I’d bet the good lord wishes that he could take back the brains he handed out to ‘em, make ‘em all Baptists or, hell, one of those holy rollers that you see prayin’ and ‘a beggin’ for money on TV. 

     It wasn’t the rancher’s idea to come into town that day. He had more than his share of work to do. Some redneck moron—more than likely one of the juiced-up oil-field roughnecks down from Odessa—had knocked over two metal fenceposts on his property, most likely showin’ off for some gals with their sixty-thousand-dollar (hell, maybe more than that) Jeep or pickup or whatever. Yet Luanne, always one to do things ever so right, never one to settle with just so-so, needed to pick up a few items at the Good Luck Grocery. Tonight, their daughter, Tamantha, their only child, along with “Brad”, her latest boyfriend, some hotshot from San Angelo, were coming to dinner. Big deal, grunted the rancher. He’s probably a dandy of some sort. Tam’s always gone for that kind, up until Anthony came long. We never should’ve sent that girl off to SMU. They put too many highfalutin notions into her noggin. Now, Dos Pesos seems like small potatoes to the likes of her. And, geez, she seems like some kinda weirdo to the folks right here in Dos Pesos, even those who knew her back when she was no more than a pigtailed tomboy on the playground at Milam Elementary. 

     What the hell, thought Spence, if Tamantha hadn’t gone and divorced Anthony or, hell, married that son of a gun in the first place, we wouldn’t have to go through this damned tomfool charade of tryin’ to put on airs so’s that we can impress the son of some nose-in-the-air banker up there in San Angelo. It’s not like that hellhole of a town is some hoity toity Dallas or Austin or, hell, even Ft. Worth. It’s San Angelo, for heaven’s sake. It ain’t that big of a deal. And, besides, Tam’s the one who thought she knew it all. She married Anthony. No one forced her. Now she doesn’t want us to spill the beans about her first marriage…like Anthony never existed.  

     “A refill, Mr. Bigelow?” Lupe, the hazel-eyed, thin-as-a-rail waitress poured a stream of the dark brown elixir into his ceramic mug.

     “Not if you’re gonna charge me another three dollars for it,” said Spence. “I ain’t made of money, you know.”

     “For you, Mr. Bigelow, the refill’s on the house.”

    Cute gal, thought Spence as he watched her narrow behind slalom through the maze of tables and chairs. Spunky and plenty smart. Put a little meat on those bones and she wouldn’t be half bad. And those eyes. Not many Mexican girls have got eyes like those. She knows damn well that I’m gonna leave her a five-dollar tip. She ain’t dumb. She knows how to get on my good side. All she has to do is smile and I’m a goner.

     The rancher rapped his fingers on the smudged, sticky oak tabletop. Another song, one of those confounded four-four songs about some gal in tight jeans getting it on with some cowboy in the back of a pickup, played from the juke box. Hell, I hate all of these modern shit-kickin’ songs, muttered Spence. They’re all the same, a bottle of beer, a good dog and a woman pantin’ over some old boy like he’s some kinda stud. And all of ‘em sung by some pretty boy in torn jeans and a John Deere baseball cap. Hell, I got plenty of old jeans and the Lord knows I’ve got the cap. That don’t make me no heartthrob. Those smart alecks ain’t nothin’ compared to Hank Williams or Ernest Tubb. Or even Willie or Waylon.

     Spence looked up and spotted an old friend, Sheriff Kyle Reed, as he lumbered through the double doors of the café like Matt Dillon coming into the Long Branch to pay Kitty a visit. The pudgy man looked around the room, caught Spence’s eye, nodded, then started toward the rancher.

     “Miss Luanne told me I’d find you in here,” said the sheriff. He plopped down across from Spence and grunted. “She’s still shopping over there at the Good Luck Grocery. I hope the commodity markets are up. You’re gonna need ‘em to be with all that she’s got in that basket of hers.” He looked around the room and snorted. “What’re you drinking, Spence?”

     “What does it look like? A goddamned mint julep? I’m havin’ myself a damned three-dollar cup of no-good bitter coffee.”

     Kyle grinned, raised his forefinger to the waitress then nodded. She nodded back. He winked at Spence then waited for Lupe to bring his own mug of coffee.

     Both men wistfully watched Lupe, a pot of coffee in one hand, a dingy dish cloth in the other, wriggle off toward the kitchen with a little extra motion in her backfield, more than likely for the sheriff’s benefit. Certainly not for Spence’s.      

     Hell, thought the rancher, this fella must spend half his life in here while the deputies do all the work. Oglin’ the waitresses and scarfin’ down enchiladas. What a life. What’s Contreras County payin’ Kyle? And to do what, drink coffee, flirt with the waitresses and stay out of the way? Hell, any fool could do that.

     “Spence,” said the sheriff, “it’s about Anthony.”

     The rancher put down his mug with a thud. “What about Anthony?”

     “Well, he’s got hisself into a peck of trouble. It seems he’s gone and got himself beaten up in some bar up there in Ft. Stockton” The sheriff paused. “Then, that hardnose sheriff up there in Pecos County arrested Anthony, even though, from the sound of things, he got the worst of it in the fight. I know that sheriff. He’s no one to mess with.” 

     “That’s not like Anthony,” said the rancher. “He’s goddamned different, that’s for sure. And a bit of an obnoxious bragger, but, what the heck, he’s a decent enough fella. He ain’t no fighter.”

     “That may be, but as it turns out, he’s the one that done that damage to your fence. He’s admitted to the sheriff up there that he’s the one that did it. Don’t ask me why he’d spout off about something like that. It sounds like he’s proud of it. Seems he’s got some sort of a grudge against you.”

     “Against me? Hell, Tam’s the one that divorced him. All I did was pay for that shyster lawyer. Considerin’ everything, I was pretty damned decent to that kid.”

     Kyle Reed chuckled. “Yeah, I heard about that. Must’ve set you back a pretty penny.”

     Spence huffed. “God damn it, I liked Anthony. Even after the shit hit the fan and we discovered he wasn’t what he claimed to be. Tam’s the one that woke up one day and realized she’d made a big mistake. She divorced his ass. Not me.” He took a deep breath. “Hell, Miss Luanne and me had to swallow a hell of lot of pride just ‘cause that girl got some fool notion in that head of hers that she wanted to get herself married to someone like Anthony.”  

     “Like him or not, he’s got himself into a jam up there.” The sheriff nodded slowly. “And to top it all off, he’s gone and told the bondsman that you’d be willing to put up the money to get him out of jail.” He laughed. “The bail’s ten-thousand dollars, but the bond would cost you a thousand.”

     Spence winced. “A thousand dollars? Hell, that’d buy more than a cup or two of this lousy coffee. Or it might even come close to coverin’ my wife’s bill over there at that grocery store.” 

     He sighed heavily. “Did Miss Luanne tell you that Tam’s bringin’ home a new boyfriend tonight?”

     “That’s good, ain’t it?”

     “Maybe. Hell, who’s to know these days? He’s from San Angelo. His old man’s some sort of a bigshot up there. A banker, no less. Brad’s the name. More than likely, Bradley. Bradley Pruitt.” The rancher squinted, then said, “At least he’s no Anthony. That’s for damn sure.”

      “Tamantha must know what she’s doing. This time at least.” The sheriff sipped his coffee, made a sour face then gazed at a couple of Mexican women at a table against the window. He turned back to the rancher. “What should I tell the sheriff up there in Ft. Stockton?”

     “Tell him it ain’t none of my business. Anthony ain’t no relation to me. Not no more.”

     Kyle Reed bit at his lip. “Spence, do you know those two women sittin’ over there?”

     The rancher glanced at the women. “Nope, never seen ‘em before. Why? You got the hots for ‘em?”

     “No.” The sheriff laughed. “One of them’s Mrs. Garza. Her son, Sammy’s the running back over at Travis High, the one that’s doin’ so good this year. They’re good people, the Garzas.”

     “Since Tam graduated I ain’t paid all that much attention to the team. They’re good, you say?”

      “Sammy’s good. The team’s okay, nothing to bet the farm on.”

     Spence studied the two women. Finally, he asked, “How does one go about bailin’ someone out of jail? Would I have to drive all the way up there to Ft. Stockton?”

     “I’m afraid so,” said the sheriff. He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “Here’s the address to that bondsman. I jotted it down for you. He’ll handle posting the bail. All you’ll need do is hand him a check.”

     “I can’t go tonight. Shoot, Luanne would have a fit if I missed her fancy supper. And Tam would never forgive me if I wasn’t there to meet the new Mr. Wonderful.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll drive up there tomorrow. But listen, Kyle, you can’t never tell Luanne that I’m doin’ this. And for God’s sake, don’t let Tam find out about this.”

     “I’ll let that sheriff know that you’re comin’. It might do Anthony some good to stew in his juices a night or two. But, someone like Anthony could have a pretty rough time of it in jail in that town.”

     The two sat silent. Both watched the two women at the table, the mother of a football star and her friend.

     “I suppose you’re expectin’ me to pay for your coffee,” said Spence.

     The sheriff shook his head. “Not at all. Mine’s free.” He grinned. “But I don’t want to hear that you sailed out of here without paying for yours. I don’t think Anthony’s going to bail you out if I have to take you in for stiffing the waitress on your bill.”

     “Anthony,” Spence grimaced. “Hell, that kid’s okay. He’s just a little screwed up in his head. He’d have to be. His life ain’t been easy. He grew up in a bunch of damned foster homes. Then he came up with that cock and bull story about goin’ to Texas Tech.” He shook his head. “I’ll get him to fix that doggone fence. That should put us even. Or close to it. After all, I’m the one who hired that know-it-all lawyer that put the screws to him. I feel like I owe him somethin’. Don’t you think so?”

     The sheriff stood, then grinned. “I don’t know, Spence. That’s your business. Not mine.”

     “What do you think?” asked Spence. “Do you suppose that some slicker named Brad could ever help me run a ranch in my old age?”

     The sheriff cocked his head, looked over at the two women then said, “I wouldn’t know. But I doubt it. His old man being a banker and all. But, what the heck, you gave Anthony a go at it. You might as well give old Brad a try.” He laughed. “Nah, forget that. I’d say that you’d be better off with Tamantha running the place. She was raised around here. She’d at least have some idea as to what she was doing.”

     The rancher nodded. “I hope Anthony’s all right up there. He’s a good kid, just a bit of a pain in the butt.”

     Kyle Reed shrugged then lowered his bulk back into the booth. “Spence, can I ask you a question?”

     “Suit yourself. But if I don’t give you an answer you got nothin’ to gripe about.”

     The sheriff blinked, looked around the room, leaned forward then whispered, “What did you think when Tamantha brought Anthony home?” He folded his hands into a knot on the table. “Did it bother you and Miss Luanne?”

    Spence chuckled. “When she brought him home? Yeah, it caught us off guard. I’d be lyin’ if I said otherwise. We weren’t expectin’ nothin’ like that.” He coughed. “After all, Miss Luanne grew up in Baton Rouge. She couldn’t wrap her mind around somethin’ like that, the thought of our daughter bein’ with a black man. But, to her credit, she did, eventually. We both thought it was just one of those things young people do to show how liberated they are. But when Tamantha up and married Anthony…after knowing him only a month or so…that’s when we began to worry. Not because Anthony was what he was, but because she’d just met him.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve got to remember that Tamantha thought he had some high-tech degree in engineering. Hell, we all thought so. We had no reason to doubt him. And she’d told him that her old man was a rich rancher.”

     “But you are a rancher.”

     “Not a rich one.”

     Kyle Reed shook his head. “Hell, richer than most everyone else in Contreras County.”

     “That ain’t sayin’ much.” The rancher grinned. “So, they each bullshitted the other. Hell, he wasn’t no engineer. That son of a bitch had only gone to college for one year. A damned community college in Austin. Flunked out. And besides, we ain’t rich. Far from it. Anyway, they bamboozled each other. Once Tamantha found out that Anthony didn’t have no job and planned to live out on the ranch with us and once he discovered that our place ain’t no Southfork Ranch and I ain’t no J. R. Ewing they each come to realize they’d been taken for a ride by the other.”

     “But you took Anthony in?”

     “Didn’t take him in. He moved in. But Anthony ain’t so bad. I’ve seen worse. And, I guess Tam’s all right, just a little headstrong...and spoiled.” Spence paused. “Now she wants us to welcome some fella from San Angelo with open arms. And we’re not supposed to say a word about Anthony. But I’ll bet you beer to nuts that Miss Luanne won’t go along with none of that. I can count on that woman to let the cat out of the bag no matter what. She can’t keep her mouth shut about nothin’. Don’t get me wrong, Luanne ain’t mean or nothin’. She just won’t put up with any more foolishness. She’s the one that set Anthony straight about Tam not being a rich gal. And she gave Tamantha more than an earful about the difficulties of the situation she was in.”

     The sheriff again stood. “What are you going to do, Spence? About Anthony?”

    “I’ll see to it that he gets out of that jail. Then that rascal’s gonna fix my damned fence. After that, it ain’t none of my concern.” Spence smiled broadly. “That young man, no matter what he’s done, don’t belong in no jail.” He laughed. “It’s the new owner of this here café that should be in jail. Three dollars for a lousy cup of coffee. Jesus Christ.”

     The sheriff gone, Spencer’s ulcer burning like a piece of coal, he stood then placed a ten-dollar bill on the table. He trudged toward the door but stopped and stood over the two women at the table by the window.

     “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but the sheriff tells me that one of you has got a son that’s a pretty fair football player.”

     Both women looked up, blinked then looked from one to the other. The younger woman, no more than thirty-five years old smiled then said, “My son, Sammy, he plays football.”

     Spence nodded. “Well, I hear he’s mighty good. You should be proud. My daughter went to Travis High. She was a cheerleader back in her day.” He shuffled his feet. He wished that he hadn’t stopped. He’d forgotten that he looked like somethin’ the cat dragged in. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ll try to make it to one of his games. Is he thinkin’ about college?”

     “Angelo State,” said the mother. “If he can get a scholarship to play football.”

     “That’d be good.” Spencer looked down at his boots. Holy cow, to these two ladies I must look like some kinda bum, he thought. Then he said, “If he ever needs a little money to help him get there, tell him that I might be able to help him out. He’d have to work for it. A part-time job on my ranch. It wouldn’t be no free lunch.”

     “I’ll tell Sammy.” The woman smiled.

     “That’d be good.” Spence sighed. “I’d best get runnin’ and pick up my wife. She’s grocery shoppin’ across the street. Then I’ve got to take her home, then drive seventy miles to take care of some business in Ft. Stockton, then seventy miles back here before supper. We’re havin’ company tonight.” He took two steps.

     “Thank you, Mr. Bigelow.”

     “You’re more than welcome,” he said. “Tell your son to come see me. I mean it. We’ll work somethin’ out.” He grinned, then he asked, “You ladies act like you know me?”

     The other woman nodded, then said, “Everyone in Dos Pesos knows you, Mr. Bigelow. And your wife. And your daughter.”

David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Floyd County Moonshine, The Mantelpiece, Oakwood, Nude Bruce Review, Canyon Voices, Change Seven, Literary Heist, Coneflower Café, The Raven Review, Voices, Sand Canyon Review, The Rush, El Portal, Bright Flash Literary Review and October Hill Magazine.

‘The Great Compromise’

Chelcie S. Porter is a bold and unapologetic artist, photographer, and creative director whose work defies conventions and embraces the raw complexities of human emotion. With over a decade of global exploration spanning 60+ countries, Chelcie draws inspiration from themes of migration, identity, and liberation, weaving these into her fine art photography, multidisciplinary creations, and community-driven projects.

The Great Compromise

Barrington Tabor, fascinated at how territorially combative the little sons of a bitch were, watched delightedly as the eight or ten, maybe more, hummingbirds vied for dominance—or simply out of pure orneriness—around the feeder that he’d put out on the tree stump behind the deteriorating one-car garage, a building that hadn’t housed an automobile in fifty years, if ever. It was the ninth of April. The little suckers had arrived unexpectedly early. 

Yesterday morning, Barrington woke to the buggers darting from scrub oak to scrub oak like the speed freaks he’d known in art school in the Bay Area, back in his days of folly and bullheadedness, before he met Debra. Much like the would-be artists used to flit from one student’s easel to another’s in the hope that their work would be the piece that received the attention of the instructor, the hummingbirds seemed to perform their feisty aerobatic maneuvers just for Barrington.  In those classes, years ago, if not praise, then advice or, hell, even criticism was all the future Piccasos and Pollocks lived for. Any notice from an instructor was a victory. Obviously, these little fluttering sons of a gun were irritated that the artist hadn’t had the decency to set out the feeder with the sugary, gooey blend for them to stick their greedy little beaks into upon their arrival from God only knows where. But how was Barrington to know? They used to show up precisely on the fifteenth of the month, year after year, but with global warming, they seemed to be adapting to less time spent in Mexico and more in Texas. For better or for worse.

Even more worrisome than the changes in the Earth’s climate and the impending doom that the alterations foretold was Debra’s, his schoolteacher wife’s, not being home yet. She should have left El Paso before eight. It was now four-fifteen. It wasn’t at all like by-the-clock Debra to dawdle at her parents’ home—of all places—and to not get an early start on her seven-hour trek across the West Texas desert.     

Debra had dreaded her return to her hometown, but it had been twelve years since she convinced Barrington that they should relocate to the dwindling town of Dos Pesos, Texas. A dozen years had slipped by since they made what Barrington called “the great compromise”. Jobs were few and far between back then—the recession and all—so they agreed to give Dos Pesos a try, for a year or two. No more than that. How bad could it be? If either of them one day were to say, “I’ve had enough of living out here in the middle of nowhere,” they’d pack up and skedaddle in the blink of an eye. As it turned out, the circumstance that the Contreras County school district was the only system that needed a high school English teacher that fall semester proved to be almost fateful. She could teach. He could paint with little distraction. Neither Barrington nor Debra regretted that she had waited too long to get her applications out after graduation from New Mexico State. The “great compromise” wasn’t all that bad, not really. So now, here they were, stuck in a town of eleven-hundred people, a place no one had ever heard of, a dusty little settlement neither of them really cared for, yet had no inclination to desert anytime soon.

“Something terrible happened between Van Horn and Ft. Stockton,” said Debra from the threadbare, dilapidated chair in the corner of the living room. Both husband and wife had intended to find someone in town who could reupholster the ugly wingback monstrosity, but neither had the gumption to seek anyone out.

“Geez,” said Barrington. “What was it?”

“I think I might’ve gotten someone killed on I-10.” Red-faced, wide-eyed, Debra pointed toward what she thought was the western wall of the living room in their one-bedroom, hundred-year-old adobe bungalow. It wasn’t west that she pointed, more like north-north-east, but Barrington knew where she intended to indicate. Debra was a teacher, not a cartographer.

“Killed? How did you get someone killed?”

She sighed. “I was driving over eighty. I knew I was running late, but you know how Mom is. I couldn’t get away without a whopping breakfast.” She shook her head, then shrugged. “Anyway, I was about halfway between Van Horn and Ft. Stockton, near Balmorhea. A semi was poking along in front of me. Like I said, I was trying to make up some time. When I pulled into the passing lane to get around the truck, I heard a honk, then the truck driver blasted his horn and, in my mirror, I saw a gray SUV swerving in the lane I was pulling into, the damned passing lane. The SUV must have been passing me, but it had to have been in my…what do you call it? My blind spot. The driver of the SUV lost control and rolled over I don’t know how many times in the median. I looked back and all I could see was the damn car tumbling over and over…and the billowing dust. It was awful.”

“Did you stop?”

“No. But in my mirror I saw that the semi had pulled over and a bunch of other cars had pulled off the road. People were running toward the overturned car.” Debra blinked. “About ten minutes later three state troopers’ cars came out from the east, probably Ft. Stockton. They had their lights flashing…and their sirens blaring. Then, a few miles farther down the road, two ambulances came from the same direction.”

“Oh, God. But you don’t know if anyone was hurt?”

“How could I? I didn’t stop. I panicked.” She glared at Barrington. “I couldn’t have helped anyone anyway.”

“Did the trucker get your license plate number?”

“How would I know?” she cried, took a deep breath then coughed. “He might have been too busy pulling off the road. But he knows that the driver of an old blue Camry is the idiot who caused the whole thing.” She rubbed at her eyes. Her hands shook like Barney Fife’s. “Should I call someone? Tell them it was me that caused the accident?”

“Jesus,” said the artist. “You could call. I guess. But I don’t see what good it would do. What’s done is done.”

Debra knotted her hands in her lap. “I teach my students to take responsibility for things. How can I just walk away from this?”

“You already did. And, holy shit, there’s a big difference between responsibility and taking the blame.” Barrington winced. “You could lose your job over something like this, causing an accident. Or leaving the scene of an accident. Could you see who was in the car?”

“I think I saw a woman in the passenger’s seat. In the front seat. She looked terrified and she must have been bracing herself against the dashboard. But I might have imagined that. I was in a panic myself.”

The artist nodded slowly. “I think you should just let it go.” He turned both of his palms upward in supplication to the gods of randomness. “If they know who you are they’ll show up here pretty damn soon. If no one got your number, you might be in the clear.”

Debra harrumphed. “But I’ll have this guilt to live with. I don’t think it’s worth it. How will I ever know what happened to those people in that car?”

Barrington grinned. “I think you’re better off not knowing. If they’re okay, so much the better. If they’re not, you don’t want to know. Not really. Like you said, what could you have done?”

“I don’t know how I can live with myself,” said Debra.

“You will,” said Barrington. He exhaled heavily. Finally, after a long moment, he said, “They called from that gallery in San Antonio, the one on Hildebrand Avenue. They sold one of my paintings. The one of the coyote on the hillside. The one you liked so much.”

Debra smiled wanly. “That’s good, isn’t it? And just out of nowhere. You weren’t sure anyone would want that one.”

Darrington nodded. No, he thought, I knew someone would want it. It just takes the right person coming along at the right time. It’s all a matter of chance.

Outside, behind the garage, the feeder rested on the stump, abandoned. The frenzy was over. They must’ve had their fill, said the artist to himself. Lucky little bastards. 

He stepped through the knee-high weeds and cactuses then bent over to check if the feeder needed refilling. It was still half-full. At the base of the stump lay a hummingbird. Motionless. Lifeless. The artist was sure of it. Like a penitent on Good Friday, he got down and his knee and studied the creature then poked at it with the forefinger on his left hand. Nothing. It was dead all right. Its pinhead-sized black eye was fixed on something beyond him in the late afternoon sky. He pulled his cellphone from the hip pocket of his Wranglers. He took the picture he would need if he decided to capture the likeness on canvas. In his mind he already had a title for the piece. Nothing Contemplating Nothingness.

“What happened to you, little guy?” he said in a thin voice. “Did the others do this to you, or did it just happen? You flew all the way from Mexico, and for what? I’ll bet you never saw it coming. How would you know? Birds don’t know about this sort of thing. It just happens.” He sighed. “Now, I’ll give you a proper burial. You know how Debra is. I can’t let her find you out here. She gets all weepy over this sort of thing.”

David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories and poems have been published in more than forty literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Floyd County Moonshine, Aethlon, Oakwood, Coneflower Cafe, Literary Heist, Change Seven, El Portal and The Raven Review.