The Ostinato Trilogy

The Next British Evasion.

The Next British Evasion.

After the kerfuffle with the lack of rooms, Trevor, with Cuff and Link in tow, headed across the street to Juniors. After all, it was the only place to eat and grab a beer within a hundred and fifty miles. The choice was obvious.

Cuff and Link might have shared a lot in common with Junior if either of the three said more than two or three words… ever. Which some might think made for difficult ordering, but it was interesting to watch, for anyone who cared to take the time to study them.

With Trevor interpreting, the three Brits found themselves sitting at the bar their first night in town. In front of each sat a bottle of Shiner pale ale and a plate full of smoked meats, ready to clog the hardiest of arteries. Accompanied by the obligatory sides of bar-b-que beans and potato salad, all compartmentalized on a paper plate. Banana pudding with Nilla wafers on standby for dessert.

After having sent Cuff and Link on their way, Trevor drank a few more Shiners. The alcohol had the desired effect of relaxing him into the new atmosphere. He felt he deserved it after a long day of traveling. The stress of the combined misadventures getting to this little watering hole in the middle of nowhere left him ready to get more than slightly pissed.

Two of the town’s professional drinkers were sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, and eyeing Trevor. Finally, Trevor rustled up the nerve to strike up a conversation. “You two live here long?”

It sounded like a repulsive chat-up line, but he needed to find some information and had to start the conversation somehow.

The two drunks nudged each other and laughed. One said, “All our lives. You’re not from around here, are ya, mister?”

On the heels of his friend, the other said, “Born and bred right here in the county. I only left in seventy-two when Uncle Sam gave me a summer holiday in Saigon.”

Back to the other, “I went to San Diego once, didn’t like it much.”

The evening’s heavy drinking and debauchery was underway.

Trevor first learned their names. Butch was the Vietnam Vet. In his mid-sixties, his skin was the texture of dried leather that someone wadded up and threw in a trashcan. Too many years in the sun had taken its toll on him. Silver-haired, he was old before his time, and his rhinophyma gave him a resemblance to W. C. Fields or the red-nosed-reindeer.

His drinking partner was named Casey. Trevor seemed to think they didn’t understand the joke, so he kept his comments to himself. To people that weren’t acquainted with them, Casey could have been Butch’s brother. A bit taller and a couple of pounds heavier, Casey was the louder of the two cowboys.

The same age, they both spent too many long days in the West Texas sun. Sun damage was visible on their faces with a better-than-average chance for the early stages of melanoma. It might be a race to determine which would kill them first: skin cancer, lung cancer, or liver cancer.

Trevor was careful not to give too much information about himself. He learned about them. How they grew up together, outside of town on neighboring ranches. How they’d gone to school here in the little one-room schoolhouse. He learned how Casey almost died when Butch was sent to Vietnam and he couldn’t go with him because of a heart murmur. How they both lost their family’s land over the course of decades, fighting against life’s hardships. They talked and acted like an old married couple, finishing each other’s sentences.

Odd, neither one of them talked about wives during all this drinking and commiserating. It was a miracle the two of them held on this long. They ended up sharing a little two-bedroom house in town. The town where they both grew up and gave the impression both were ready to die, never to leave again.

The night grew late, and the drinking continued. Trevor decided he’d gained enough trust to ask the real questions he was seeking answers for.

“Can I bum a fag?” he asked, reaching for the pack of smokes… “So tell me, anything exciting happen around here at night?” He took a cigarette and put it between his lips.

The two men stopped talking and laughing, their gazes turned to glares. You could hear a mouse fart in the wall; the place was silent. After a moment, Casey asked in a not too friendly voice, “What ‘cha mean by that?”

Trevor, not understanding what had transpired, tried to save the conversation. “I mean, it is a pretty small town. Is this the most exciting thing that happens around here?”

“Listen, Mister, I am not sure what you are implying, but maybe you should leave,” was all the reply that came from Butch.

With thick beer goggles, Trevor could not understand what was happening to his fun night out with his new friends and drinking partners. He spotted the men’s hands balled up into fists, ready to beat the crap out of him. He suddenly wished he had not sent Cuff and Link back to the room. Even though the two drunks were old, Trevor did a few quick calculations, and they all ended up with him getting his ass kicked. He thought it better to take leave with his hide intact, which he did, moving down the bar to settle his tab with Junior before walking outside.

He almost collided with a young woman leaning against the hood of a car right outside the joint.

“Why the hell you bring that up?” was her question as soon as the door banged closed. Now it seemed like he was going to receive an ass-kicking by a child of no more than fifteen, and a girl.

Trevor, still clueless, only mumbled the following, “Bring what up? I’ve no idea what happened just now.”

He glanced back over his shoulder and then back at the teen.

“Round here we don’t call people fags. Gets people shot.” She motioned towards the closed door. “Those two really hate that word.”

Trevor smacked himself in the forehead. “Aw shite, man, in London a fag is a cigarette… I need to go explain to them.” He started to move towards the door and was stopped by her small hand on his shoulder.

“Let it go. I will explain it to them later.” She pulled a six-inch buck knife from behind her back, closing it. “Now what information was you trying to get from those two old men?”

Trevor feigned shocked disbelief, “Me? Information?” and failed.

“Mister, I have seen enough TV to know when someone is getting others drunk so they can get some info from them. Now don’t lie to me.” She waved the closed knife in his general direction.

He rubbed his head a moment, pulling out his lighter, and lit the offending cigarette. Then he took a deep drag and blew the smoke into the air.

She called him on it, “Listen! Stop stalling and tell me what you want with the two old geezers!”

He wobbled a bit, leaning on the car next to her. Regarding her with defeated eyes, he sighed. “A few months ago, someone took some pictures of lights in the night sky. I am here to learn what I can about that. That is all.”

“You from the government?” There was caution in her voice.

He laughed a little. “Do I look or sound like I am from your government?”

She eyed him a moment before saying, “You from any government?”

Trevor shook his head, at a speed compatible with his drunken state. “Miss, I can assure you, I am not a representative from any government, past, present, or future.” He laughed a little to himself at the absurdity of the thought.

Slipping the buck knife into her back pocket, she said, “You look like a nice enough fellow… What you want to know about that night?”

Trevor was struck for a moment. Running the incident over in his head for so long, he never thought about what he might ask if he found someone that possessed information not in the papers. So he started simply enough, “Did you read what was in the papers, about that night?”

“Sure, wasn’t that much in the paper, kinda painted us as hicks,” she confessed.

“Did they leave anything out?” questioned Trevor.

She admitted she had not seen the lights. She was home watching a rerun of CSI. She went on to tell the story as she knew it, going over some details Trevor had not read but that didn’t seem important. Finally, she came to an end, leaving Trevor rather disappointed.

“Is there more? Is that all?” Trevor pleaded.

“Well… I did learn that Old Sits had seen something, but ya’ got to keep this between us. Leave those two old men out of all this.”

“Old Shits? What’s an Old Shits?” Trevor, still buzzing from the night of drinking, was finding it difficult to keep up.

“Old Sits is a crazy old Russian guy that lives out in the desert… I heard he was the one that ran into Juniors shouting about an invasion,” she finally added.

“Crazy old… what is all of this? I never heard of any of this. How did you learn about…?” He considered for a moment the microscopic town. “Let me guess, word of mouth?”

“Kind of, yeah. My grandfather told me. Tried to explain it to me, but I really wasn’t too concerned at the time. I do know Old Sits saw something though.” She held out her hand wanting some cash, the idea just coming to her.

Trevor glanced at her hand, reached for his wallet, but left it closed for the moment. “Who did you hear this from?”

“I told you, my grandfather. You met him as Butch.” She rubbed her fingers together.

He took out a twenty and let her touch it but did not let go. “Why were you afraid I was from the government?”

She played a slight tug-of-war with the twenty. “Grandpa and Casey been lying to the social security people for years. One of these days, it will catch up with ‘em.” Trevor released the twenty.

She pushed off to leave, brushing off her backside. Trevor mentioned, “I never did catch your name.”

She turned to face him, her glare cold straight into his eyes, and she lifted the middle finger of her right hand to him. “I never told you.”

Trevor was amused. “If you’re going to do that to a Brit, you need to…” He demonstrated the reverse two-fingered salute as it is done in England. “Like this.”

Stone-faced, she scanned him up and down one last time, turned, and walked towards the gas station.