The Zen Master by Wally Runnels

The Zen Master by Wally Runnels

Rocky was nervous about Moss Briggs. Hadn’t seen him for a while. Past eighty years old, he lived below the Mexican-American Border. He was a tough ole boy who stood by his axiom: Devil takes the hindmost.

Rocky had a place in Bankhead Springs, an isolated desert community in East San Diego County. Surrounded by a collection of assorted shacks and an aging hotel that was popular in the twenties with celebrities of the silent screen.

Based on Rocky’s unengaged manner, local folks would have been surprised by his respect for the community. He cared, but preferred to work behind the crowd. Rocky was a retired disabled Marine with two deployments in Afghanistan. He lost his left arm in an explosion working for the CIA in Macao.

He wondered what it was like being elderly and living alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by characters of unknown moral boundaries. He remembered an article he read. Old people were not risk takers. Age made them feel vulnerable. Moss was rugged, but bad things happened down there.

Throwing a shovel in the truck bed in case he got stuck, he sat a six-pack of water bottles on the front passenger seat. His ride was a four-by-four Ford Raptor. The same used by the U.S. Border Patrol.

& & &

The truck rocked and bumped, heading south on a desert trail. Lurching past boulders pushed together in intestinal shaped unions. The faint two-wheeled track was dangerous. It was a franchised route owned by the Tijuana-based Felix Arreleno Cartel. They didn’t own the land; a local family did, through the Homestead Act of 1890. But only the Felix Arreleno crowd could use the trail to move drugs and illegals. Anyone else who tried would disappear.

Rocky studied his surroundings. To most people, this would be a wasteland of rock, brush, and the occasional tree. For two hundred years hundreds of people had traveled through this location: Indian bands, Spanish marauders, and U.S. calvary. Some had died here making it hallowed ground, historical and dangerous.

Sudden bursts of wind rocked the truck and shimmered a Pinyon Pine, whose leaves moved like a crowd of milling people. Rocky had a feeling he was being watched.

A young man wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and  thick, shapeless blanket foot covers stepped from behind a boulder. He had the swagger and the look of a cartel coyote. Rocky could see he was unarmed, but what about the others he couldn’t see?  Guys like that never traveled alone. A burst of tension brought the warning taste of adrenalin, a dark acrid flavor. How many more were behind the rock the stranger had stepped away from?

“You picking us up?” The guy asked with a grin.

“Do I look like the Felix Arrelano Cartel bus?”

“A smart ass.”

“That’s right. The bus stop’s north, about five miles.” Rocky gestured with his hand.

“Seen any uniforms?”

“Just sand, rock, and redshank, but you still have a long hike to the Interstate.”

“We could take your truck.” The guy chuckled and rocked his shoulders.

“Be hard with me chasing you in it.”

The coyote’s self-assurance cooled. He stared at Rocky with a hint of recognition. “Seen you in Mexicali?”

“Probably,” Rocky cocked his head.

“The Tuna Club.” His eyes widened in question. “You always hang with Hector Rosales and Cruz, that police Captain.”

Now somber, “Yeah, I know about you. What’re you doing here?” His forehead was a wrinkled frown. His body slumped in recognition of what Rocky was.

“You see the old man?” Rocky pointed south. “Moss Briggs?”

“Yeah, he’s a good one,” the coyote nodded, still looking at Rocky, his head moving in thoughtful nods.

“Just checking on him, making sure he’s okay.”

“We never bother him.”

“How is he?”

“He’ll tell you. We offered to help, but he wouldn’t let us.” The coyote held his hands in a gesture of picking something up. Then in frustration waved his hands away. “Old-guy’s stubborn.”

“You don’t be messing with him.”

“No way, not him. Always got water for us.”

“As long as you’re there, I guess.”

“Calls us trespassers.”

“But he sees you as human beings,“ Rocky prompted. “Why you get something to drink.”

The coyote dipped his head. “Gotta go.” He looked at Rocky as if waiting for permission. His attitude was slow motion careful with hands up in a peace gesture.

“You never answered my question,” said Rocky.

“Bad luck to talk about him right now.” The coyote crossed himself and kissed a medallion that hung on a chain around his neck.

“You superstitious?”

“Cautious.” The coyote waved his arm and twelve people emerged from behind the boulder. Not bad at two to ten thousand a head. For the price, each gets three tries. After that, if they’re alive, they start over. The coyote probably moved them from Mexicali or Tecate below the American side and hiked up from Mexican Highway 2. It was a good week’s work.

Rocky watched them disappear into a ravine wearing heavy jackets, backpacks and blanket foot covers. The fabric booties hid shoe details, but not a footprint. The manufacturer seemed to have the franchise on illegal fashions for blue heavy cotton footwear. Piles of discarded cloth that Rocky had found always seemed to be blue and white in the same pattern.

“Hey,” yelled Rocky. “You tell those guys those boot slippers don’t make them invisible.”

“No sense doing that,” the coyote yelled back. “They buy ‘em from me.” He rubbed his fingers, making the money gesture.

& & &

Rocky drove on and finally saw Moss’ place. Animals surrounded it. Chickens, pigs, goats, and his part-time dog, ‘Sometimes’, lay on the porch in the shade.

Moss was sitting on the steps like a statue. Rocky stopped short of Moss and stopped to let his dust pass. The old man made no attempt to recognize his visitor. Rocky got out of the truck and was shocked by Moss’s languor. His immobility.

Moss swiveled his head to Rocky and produced a crooked smile and returned his face to the frontal.

“You take a bad fall?” Rocky asked.

Moss turned his head left and right. His bottom jaw pushed out exposing two lower missing teeth and he sighed.

Everything looked normal. What was going on with the old man? His little wooden house looked okay. Didn’t appear to be damaged. It was small with white wood siding that appeared to be freshly painted. A covered front porch ran the width of the structure that sat on a rock foundation. Two slightly different sized windows framed the open door. White rocks painted in a military fashion made a path to the gateway. A nearby spring poured from a rock and watered a galvanized tub surrounded by goats. Moss had built pens and shelters for the animals.

Rocky left the truck and unlatched the gate and walked over to Moss, who quietly sat on the front steps.

Sometimes, wiggled his feet and woofed in a doggie dream.

& & &

A retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, Moss had a gripe against the U.S. Angry that the last world war had been the last of its kind. Complained of being left out of a great noble cause.

“With all the fuck-ups in our government, you’d think someone would have started another one by now.” Moss would bitch and grouse and wave a year old Time Magazine in the air.

“Never been in a World War,” he continued. “Too young for World War II. Only got Korea and Vietnam, both called Police actions. Never no walk down Fifth Avenue in a ticker tape parade.”

Moss yawned. “Got off the ship from Korea, people asked ‘where you been?’ Korea, I’d say. ‘Where’s that, they’d ask.’”

He spoke without changing his posture.

“Got off the boat after Nam. People pissed on my shoes for defending the American way. No one ever did that to a soldier coming home from the Big Fight.”

Iraq and Afghanistan were enough for Rocky. Either could make you dead, and it did for a lot of men and women.

& & &

Moss’s politics were just to the right of Mars. He had definite views on the current administration. In fact any political administration.

“Negotiate! Hell, you say. There’s no substitute for a well-aimed Minuteman.” Like the missile, he’d been retired that long.

To most people, Moss Briggs doddered in the slow lane of life. Some people might say he had a dull existence, but he enjoyed his animals and took care of them everyday. He loved hiking in the hills, looking for Indian ruins.

A magazine article had stated a set pattern was probably the backbone of an older person’s wellbeing. Probably why people said old folks were “dull”. Maybe established habits adverse to risk got them through the day. Closer to their mortality, they took no chances regarding their safety.

Moss wore a short sleeve Hawaiian shirt and a U.S. Navy ball cap. Rocky read U.S.S. Midway, CV-41 in big yellow-stitched letters. It was the aircraft carrier Moss was on in the Vietnam War.

The place didn’t look vandalized and nothing appeared broken or damaged.      Moss turned his head towards Rocky and nodded. He was hunched over as though something was wrong with his back.

“Ya didn’t come to tell me we got World War III starting up, did’ja.” Moss spoke with his head tilted to the sky. Otherwise his body posture hadn’t changed. “If it did, can you take me to the Navy recruiter?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Damn, better happen soon or I’m gonna miss my chance.” He looked down at his lap, which was obscured by his shirttail.

“What’s up, Moss?”

“The usual. How you?” Moss yawned out his greeting.

Rocky scanned the place, but saw no danger.

“You see those illegals that passed by?”

“Bother you, any?”

“No, it’s always the same. Jus want water.”

“I’m sure the border boys will get ’em. Saw some uniforms on Old 80 when I came down.”

“Feel sorry for ‘em.” Moss nodded sleepily.

“People in Boulevard haven’t seen you around.”

“Been working my Zen.” Moss exhaled a sigh and kept his body rigid.

“I’m looking at you and thinking, you need some rest?”

Moss yawned wide again and shook his head. “Tired.” 

“Why don’t you go in and take a nap?”

Moss continued to keep his body to the front, but turned his face to Rocky. “Jus here relaxing, practicing my Zen. I learned it in Japan, during my time in the Navy.”

“You took Zen lessons in Japan?”

Moss nodded his head at Rocky and yawned.

“Before we’d go on leave, we’d always get a lecture on the local ways. The Way of Zen was one.”

“Oh yeah. You picked up some Zen in a few of those lectures?” Rocky was skeptical. Zen took years to learn.

Moss sat like a statue.  Two pigs butted their heads against a wooden feeder with hungry impatience. Chickens crowded the empty food bins. All the animals looked hungry and anxious.

“Better feed them pigs, Moss. They’re gonna break down their trough.”

“Will when I finish my Zen.” Moss tilted his head back to the pigs.

Maybe Moss wasn’t alone. Rocky leaned in with a low conspiratorial voice. “Moss, you okay?” Rocky looked over Moss’s shoulder. “No one in the house is there?”

Moss sighed, “I’m alone.” He hesitated for a moment. “Well, not quite,” he cocked his head up to Rocky.” Yesterday, after lunch, I sat down on these steps and dozed off. Afternoon, I woke up and felt a funny weight against my stomach.” Moss leaned back to show his lap and the folds of his flowered shirt. The rattler was black and shiny and lay in a coil. A young one, only two feet long, but deadly.

Moss sighed, “I’m waiting to see who moves first.”                

Rocky leaned over the reptile. “I could grab him real quick, Moss.”

“No, got my Zen working for me.” He stared at the snake as if contemplating the risk factor.

Rocky stared at Moss, not quite believing. The wild colors in his reasoning wove a flurry of flashes and pops, reveling in the excitement of danger and questionable outcome of the old man’s proposition. In the landscape of Rocky’s mind, black loomed, but not moving at any great speed. Maybe Moss did have it under control.

Moss had made a choice. Could have got help, but turned it down, twice. He was a bright spot in Rocky’s mind, a surprising illumination of the strength and validity of the human spirit at any age.

But if Rocky came back tomorrow and the snake was still there, what would Moss do? He sat like a stone molded by conviction, his inner strength glowing on his outer surface.

“Rocky, if you don’t mind, you might come back tomorrow and check on me.”

“Roger that, Moss.”

And Rocky tried to remember the name of the fool who said old folks were afraid to face risk.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Wally Runnels 2024