Chapter Six

The first day of spring. Dull roots, stirred by vernal rains, shake off winter’s icy grip. The air thickens with the smell of last autumn’s leaves rotting in the muddy thaw. A sudden humid warmth unearths lost memories of youth as well as the decomposed debris of human refuse heaped winterlong beneath the frozen crust. Springtime sewers overflow, clogged with months of unswept garbage. Suicides and murder victims rise to the slimy surface of the East River. All the foul smells, once hidden by winter’s odorless frost, now mingle uncomfortably with the scent of lilacs as they reach for the heavens between discarded prophylactics and soiled under-garments. Like lemon-scented ammonia in public toilets, the fragrance of fresh flowers only seduces you into letting your defenses down. All kinds of fearsome bacteria and toxicants flood unfiltered into the overloaded nervous system.

There’s guns across the water aimin’ at ya,

Lawman on your trail he’d like to catch ya,

Bounty hunters too they’d like to get ya,

Billy they don’t like you to be so free.²⁹

When out among the sullied sublunary world, even for a few moments, I can’t wait to return homeward to safety, to the pleasure of scrubbing hands clean whether I was exposed to a soiled coin, a public bannister or just the tainted wind. A foulness breeds freely beneath every surface, on the sweaty palms that reach out to shake your hand, behind every grimy door, every false face masking wickedness and hypocrisy. All hide ugly truths, darkened and diluted beyond recognition.

Billy don’t you turn your back on me.³⁰

The ugly truth is always hidden.

Billy don’t it make you feel so low down,

To be hunted by the man who was your friend.

—Bob Dylan³¹

Take Billy the Kid: the more one researches, the more one uncovers.

As history books and dime store novels alike tell it, Henry Michael McCarty, alias Billy the Kid, was shot by Sheriff Pat Garrett in Pete Maxwell’s bedroom at Fort Sumner, July 14, 1881.

Beyond this widely accepted fact, however, few are in agreement. To land-grabbing cattle barons, like John Chisum, Billy was both a cattle rustler and a rake who was after both his cows and his beautiful niece, Sallie. To presidential hopefuls like Governor Lew Wallace, author of Ben Hur. William H. Bonney was a thorn in the side of his political ambition. To power-hungry thugs like L.G. Murphy and Jimmy Dolan, the Kid stood in the way of their monopoly over the citizens of Lincoln County. Yet to the Mexican people, uprooted from the land of their forefathers (a land they had so painstakenly wrestled from the Mescalero Apache), El Chivato (the billy goat) was a modern day Robin Hood who stole cows from rich cattle barons (greedy gringos) and generously shared his wealth with the little people (and his seed with the señoritas).

However, to the American public at large (including Washington), fueled by serials like ‘The Forty Thieves’ (which represented Billy as a cold-blooded killer and leader of a ruthless gang), the kid was a threat to civilized society. The ‘Boy Bandit King’ was an untamed beast. After all, those who conduct themselves above the law undermine an American dream founded upon the principles that hard work is rewarded and evil punished all for the good of the community, God, and the nation as a whole. In other words, the individual must earn it fair and square. Is that not democracy?³²

I rode a trail through my neighbor’s back yard

Shooting the bad guys through my handle bars.

Known for my bravery both far and near,

Being late for supper was my only fear.³³

Yet, what law determines who the most deserving individual is? Natural law? Who, more often than not, reaps the rewards of American democracy: crooks, politicians, the not-so-idle rich? Certainly not the meek. Are not the most worthy often left forgotten, rotting away in dark apartments, knowing too much for their own good, unable to fit into a world of befouled values and morals askewed?³⁴

These days I don’t know whose side to be on.

There’s such a thin line between right and wrong.

I live and learn, do the best I can.

There’s only so much you can do as a man.³⁵

I know I must go out there sooner or later. Provisions are low and I should mount an expedition for supplies, but the timing must be right. Helios is on the rise again after a long night in hiding. I look out the window and watch as the rose fingers of dawn climb the building across the way. With each new window enveloped by sunlight, reflected rays pierce through me, yet I can’t pull my eyes away. Behind each pane, faceless shades ready themselves for day. They’ll be rushing to work soon. Hostile and indifferent spirits will fill the fetid air, waiting to piggyback on the unsuspecting soul.

The sun rises. Lemmings flood the streets. Too late to go out there. Time for bed.

I miss Billy the Kid

The times that he had, the life that he lived.

I guess he must of got caught,

His innocence lost, I wonder where he is.

I miss Billy the Kid.

- Billy Dean³⁶

Yes, bed.

Floating beneath the stars on a cloudless night, my weightless spirit glides above a dark green forest touched lightly by the moon …