El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

 

10-8-2021: It doesn't matter what tool or item I need at the moment – the odds are somewhere around 98.7% probability that while I indeed posses the item, said item is stored elsewhere. I call this phenomenon the: “It's in my other trailer.” Whether or not this phenomenon has scientifically been proven, is irrelevant. It exists in my world and I'm getting it put on a T shirt.

The above “It's in my other trailer” phenomenon has become less of an issue now that I'm moved on to my property and have contained my trailers, connex and critters within my 5 acres. What items I left behind in Eastern Oregon will simply need to be duplicated.

In the meantime, being semi settled means getting my butt in gear and setting up this place. The first item is an arena. I am happy...ecstatic really...to report that there are no rocks on my five acres of desert. That's right...none...zip... ZERO. What we do have here is mesquite trees and grease wood. The grease wood – also called kerosene brush for it's flammability – is easy enough to remove. The mesquite...not so much.

Ideally, I would have hired someone with a backhoe to dig out the mesquite. Trying to hire anything done is practically impossible these days. Half of the people are getting paid too much to not go to work and the other half are so busy trying to fill in for the socialist weenies milking the system - they are months out. Fortunately, Miss Kitty voted for Trump and I brought her to Arizona with me.

Mesquite roots are not particularly deep but they are exceedingly long and incredibly sinewy. If Miss Kitty couldn't dig them out with the bucket, I'd wrap a chain around the roots and pull them out. Some roots snaked out of the ground in one piece over 30' long. Others I had to dig down as far as possible and cut them off with a saws-all.

The dead mesquite is no easier to remove than the live stuff. The roots turn hard as concrete when dead and tough and sinewy when green. You can't pull it up or cut it off. Swearing at it doesn't help either. I've tried. A lot.

I did learn something new. Scorpions make their homes in dead mesquite roots. Underground. Waiting for the unsuspecting arena builder to be sitting on her butt, legs braced against the sand with a mesquite root in both hands pulling with all her might spewing profanities. That's when the most ominous looking arachnida on the planet decides to crawl up arena builders shoe onto her knee. Do you know how close your face is to your knee when you are in such a position? TO FREAKING DAMN CLOSE!

As I often do when encountering new species, I googled scorpions. Interesting invertebrates. There are approximately 1,750 species of scorpions and 25 of those are known to have venom capable of killing a person. Whether or not the one hiking up my knee was one of the 25...I hope to never find out. They are capable of surviving up to 12 months without food and excrete very little waste. I guess the two would go hand in hand: Don't eat...don't poop.

Scorpions normally reproduce in the usual manner. Boy meets girl...girl bats eyelashes. One thing leads to another... However, some species reproduce through parthenogenesis....a process in which unfertilized eggs develop into live little scorpling embryos! CREEPY! I like the word “scorpling” though. I think I shall use it the next time I need to describe a kid I don't like.

For those scorpions lucky enough to reproduce the good old fashioned way – the 'event' can take from 1 to over 25 hours. Once complete – the male typically retreats. Real shocker there. Now...I can't help but envision the Arachnologist tasked with the study of such matters. He in his white lab coat and horn rimmed glasses watching this arachnida version of the “promenade a' deux “ and wishing, for just a moment....

I'd had enough of mesquite roots and invertebrates for one day. When Cousin Phil called and said they were thinking of going to Bar 7 for drinks, I agreed to go along. I needed a break. I jumped in the shower to wash off the dust and smell of mesquite. Each time I turn on the faucet or flush the toilet in my newly plumbed abode, I'm thrilled and a little nervous. It's a satisfying feeling knowing the water coming through the pipe is one you put in yourself...and just a little shocked when the thing doesn't sprout a geyser somewhere along the line.

Bar 7 was packed. The waitress said we would have to move from the only available table if a large group came in. Move where? It was the only table. The dishwasher/bus boy took pity on us and managed to find a table on the outdoor patio sporting the live band. He led us to a table tucked in the far back corner.

While I learned a little about scorpions earlier in the day – I learned a lot about tequila in the afternoon. Mostly that I have a one margarita limit. Anything after that and they give me a headache. Plus, I cannot be responsible for what comes out of my mouth. I find this odd. I can drink whiskey all night long with little effect. One margarita and I'm ready to dance on the tables. Two margarita's and I'm accusing a guy on his first date of being a serial killer. Yep.

We weren't long into the evening...somewhere towards the end of my first margarita and the start of my second– when a couple asked if they could sit at our table. All others were full. We obliged. I could tell this was a fairly new relationship and felt it was very much my business to ask them about it. “So...you guys appear to be newly weds or newly daters?” They replied that yes, they had known each other for an entire hour. “Huh...so your saying..” I think Phil kicked me under the table. I stopped before verbalizing my train of thought. You can't blame me for thinking it...the guy was sporting a thousand dollar watch and flashing 100 dollar bills like they were confetti. I reformed my next question: “So how did you meet?” They met on a dating site: Match.com. “Oh really...cool. I didn't know you could rent...” Yep, pretty sure Phil kicked me again. “So...what's your names?” His name was Daryl - her name was Marie. Marie was WAY too attractive for Daryl. I thought he should know this. “Just so you know, Daryl...Marie is WAY out of your league.” Damn it Phil...stop kicking me.

I watched the couple as the evening progressed. Marie was all over Daryl like hair on an ape. Marie scooted closer with every 100 bill Daryl pulled out of his wallet. I realize I can be somewhat hyper- vigilant. Paranoid, really. More so toward the bottom of my second margarita. It didn't help that I had been listening to the news about the alarming number of woman falling victim to serial killers using dating sites as their medium. I leaned across the table so Daryl could hear and see the intensity in my steely gaze: “Daryl...if I see Marie's face on the news as a missing person, you are in big trouble, Mr! I never forget a face. I will hunt you down. You can only HOPE the police find you first.” Dang...tequila not only gives me false bravado – but I can no longer feel Phil kicking me in the shin.

Daryl asked where we were from...we asked Daryl where they were from. Or maybe I asked...Phil was too busy kicking the shit out of me under the table. Marie was from Phoenix...Daryl from Wickenburg. He had recently sold the West Plaza shopping complex. The same complex where I do my laundry. The same laundromat that hasn't had a working dryer in the two years I've been here. I thought I should bring that up to Daryl. “So...did you fix the goddamn dryers before you sold it!?” Phil stopped kicking me and just shook his head.