At the Downtown Prescott Inn…

Prescott AZ 1910

Downtown Prescott Inn, Prescott AZ, 1910…


GUN 2013

Chapter 9


Submissivania eyeballs me over her morning coffee.  Two green pools of bottomless desire beckon me to be what I am not.  I am not young.  So I look away & comment on the weather.

“Indeed it is Spring,” replies Submissivania.

Prescott is budding everywhere.  We witnessed the last of the winter snow a few days after our arrival about a month ago.  Now Spring is on the prowl.

Downtown Prescott is nestled in the hills down which trickles Granite Creek.  The city is an old mining and cattle town ~ with some suburbs now ~ the major tumor on the side of its head being Prescott Valley.    The city of Prescott has vehemently, protectively, adopted as its own the forest it ravaged in the early days.  Thumb Butte, a towering outcrop of blunt rock west of downtown, is the city signpost.  Granite Mountain, a much bigger rock and a mountain-lion lair, stoically eternally grimaces yonder northwest.

The vivacious damsel & I have rooms across the hall from each other on the topmost 3rd floor of the Downtown Prescott Inn. This inn has the characteristics of an old miner whose Stairway to Heaven is made of thick slabs of ornate wood.  This inn is quite an establishment in my estimation ~ enough so that I’m going broke staying here.  It doesn’t take much to make me go broke.  My only income, presently, is a meager stipend of Social Security that I began receiving this long-gone winter.

Out on our 3rd-floor balcony Submissivania & I lean against the rail & drink the free brew from the main lobby.  We got a nice view up here.  Submissivania commences in wrapping me around her little finger by saying, “Rawclyde, when are you going to start wearing your new hat?  Aren’t you tired of that old one yet?”

“By n’ by,” wistfully crow I, gazing at Thumb Butte out yonder…



Thumb Butte, Prescott AZ, photo by Franz Rosenberger






GUN 2013

Chapter 8


Our mission objective is to get to Prescott, Arizona, & await further instruction.  We’re there.

We’ve been here for some time now.  About a month.  Awaiting further instruction.

My hunch is our mission has something to do with gun legislation in Washington D.C.

So I drop by the library at the Yavapai Community College & rifle through the NRA’s latest American Rifleman magazine, which on the cover claims to be “The World’s Oldest & Largest Firearm Authority.”

This is a paranoid periodical.  The U.S. President is referred to as “King Pinnochio” on the cover ~ as if our president is the one doing all the lying.  Pinnochio was a wooden puppet of lore whose nose grew real long because he lied.  I don’t think the president’s nose is as long as Pinnochio’s.  And I don’t think the president is made out of wood. 

This is the April 2013 edition of the American Rifleman on the table in front of me.  Working in a thrift store a few years back, I came across hundreds of older issues of this magazine when it was highly regarded.  It doesn’t look so reputable now.  Twenty first-grade children and their teachers were massacred by a nut-cake wielding an assault weapon not too long ago in Newtown, Connecticut.  The president feels it is his duty to do something about it.  This magazine claims that our man in the White House is blatantly lying about what he’s doing.

According to Wayne Peeintheair, the most outspoken voice in this National Rifle Association (NRA) publication, the best thing the president can do, is make sure the laws already on the books are being enforced.  Not a bad idea.  My hunch is the president is already doing the best he can with this.

Three quotes by the president are highlighted on the first page of the cover story.  The quotes reflect common sense and are fair.  But, of course, Peeintheair writes in this article that the president is lying, especially when the president says, “I am not going to take your guns away.”  Peeintheair would find loopholes in the truth if the president said, “I am black.”

Also, why is it that when people like Peeintheair rant and rave about their 2nd Amendment right to bare firearms, they never mention the first part of the amendment about a “well regulated militia”?  Privately owned vehicles are strictly regulated via driver’s licenses, car registration, and car insurance.  What makes these people think deadly firearms should be exempt from such regulatory attention ~ especially after the needless slaughter of 20 school children?  

I say President Barack Obama is not lying.  I am the White House’s favorite secret agent.  Well, I am one of them.  The other one is my partner on this mission, Ms. Submissivania Whapp.

~ Rawclyde!



Quite a gal…

courtesy of Evelina Galli 2


GUN 2013

Chapter 7


Submissivania Whapp, it turns out, is not only a pretty woman.  She’s become an accomplished pony rider over the years in a secret canyon of the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.  And she’s become the best-selling author of the world’s most sought after erotica in the late-night glow of her bedroom computer.  And she’s a top-gun corporate executive on week days.  And she’s the youngest of the White House’s favorite secret agents ~ 24 years old.  And she hasn’t moved out of her parent’s sprawling suburban-ranch home yet.

Ms. Whapp lets go these autobiographicals as she massages my neck & shoulders.  This massaging endeavor of hers causes me to swiftly recover from my swoons.  Now her close proximity is elevating me to a clairvoyant height I’ve never obtained before in a Greyhound bus seat.  Her flowery scent, her warm breath, the congenial display of valley and hillock within licking distance lifts my consciousness out of a muck that it’s been languishing in for I don’t know how many years.  The clairvoyance I’m experiencing is startling.  I actually witness angels grouped around the exterior of the bus protecting it from traffic accidents as it speeds along the highway.  My religiousity soars as Ms. Whapp’s hands, saintly lampoons, knead all cares and worries out of my teetering over-the-hill body.  I’m an ecstatic old timer ~ downright near experiencing levitation.

We roll past stacks of cotton on cotton farms, into the desert town of Gila Bend, and park for a hamburger and a coke.  We’ve got 20 minutes.

While we scarf-up the delicacies at Carl’s Jr. I tell Submissivania, “This is where I sold books out of a truck once upon a time.  Right here, right here where we’re sitting.”

“Really, Rawclyde, you’re so funny!” bubbles my favorite secret-agent partner.

“Right here in this very spot, before this hamburger joint was ever here,” I tell her.  “I sold a little book of lyrics written by old Hank Williams to a school teacher one day.  A half hour later another school teacher come by all excited and buy a fat biography of Pancho Villa.”

“That’s hilarious, Rawclyde!” giggles Submissivania.

I got the feeling that this pretty woman is patronizing the old man.  Which, in actuality, is okay with me.  She slyly looks around, sticks a french fry into a puddle of catchup on her tray, pops it into her mouth.  I take another bite of my burger, gulp down some coke.  The burger isn’t too bad.

“I called that old truck ~ Rawclyde’s Book Mule.”

“Oh Rawclyde!  How cute!”




Love is in the air…

dreamstimefree_796245 geese


GUN 2013

Chapter 6


I find it peculiar being an old man.  Being a young man is one thing.  Being a man is a little bit of another.  But being an old man is indeed peculiar.

I have loved women on occasion, physically & heartfully, but never committed to marrying one.  So now I live without that comfort, that company, and actually don’t know that much about it.  Consequently, for me now, what is Love?

God, Jehovah, Allah, Krishna is love.  Mary, the mother of Jesus, is love.  And Jesus, himself, is a man painted with God colors.  I pray, usually alone.  For me, prayer is a certain thought in a certain direction, sometimes vocalized.  I pray that my love for life all around me never dies.  When an attractive woman comes along & gives me the time of day ~ this is a special moment ~ a poetic moment ~ when love blooms like a little desert flower ~ like a little miracle from on high.

When I regain consciousness a 2nd time on the Greyhound heading into Phoenix ~ I take a long look at the other secret agent and tell her, “Love is in the air.”

She laughs, being a woman with a good nature.  And she says, “What?”

Maybe she wants to hear the quaint news again.  I don’t know.  I cannot stop myself from continuing the refrain.  My hand waves around like an archangel’s wand.  And I say,  “Love is all around, in this run-a-way bus, in the desert air outside!  Look!”

I see in her two big emeralds a quizzical regard toward he whom she’s giving her sacred attention.  I believe she thinks I’m crazy.  But I believe she might like crazy, my kind of crazy.  She glances around in token respect.

What does the fair & desirable secret agent see?

The couple in the seat behind us is buried in a blanket.  Two single men further back cannot stop talking enthusiastically in a foreign accent ~ crossing America.  Two kids back there are teasing their mom.  Or is the big lady their aunt?  Upfront older folks have flocked around the driver like he is George Washington, despite the strange plastic cubicle inside which he is confined.

Outside our rolling thunder, the creosote is pretty prominent in these parts.  The saguaro cacti is pretty scrawny and occasional.  Anything called a mountain is pretty far away.  There’s lots of space.  Most of it is limitless blue sky.

“What did you say your name is?”

Stray strands of red hair swirl around.  She smiles.  “I am Ms. Whapp.”

“Would you happen to know what time it is, Ms. Whapp?”

She pulls out her phone.  Click.  “It’s 3:10.  And you can call me by my first name if you can remember it.”

All I can remember is her first name is one long roller-coaster ride…

~ by Rawclyde!


Going Greyhound



GUN 2013

Chapter 5


At the Palm Street Station, a few miles this side of the Mexican border, a few others & I stand in the dark waiting for the trolley when ~ when nothing happens.  Except that eventually the trolley comes by & we all get on.

The trolley ride is uneventful ~ except that I am surrounded by hungry Mexicans.  None of them have guns.  El lone gringo is not molested.  Sometimes I become fascinated by this group of people who daily commute across the border to work or otherwise carry on.  They’re so, so earnest.  The young women, of course, fascinate me the most.  From where does such stoic & penetrating beauty come?  The only answer I can fathom:  it comes from below the border.

At 12th & Imperial, I get off, walk across the street to the little Greyhound Bus veranda,  show Security my back-pack & wait for the Greyhound.  The sun moseys up into the sky & I contemplate the colossus public library, fresh built, not yet open, a little ways up the street.  I’m proud of San Diego for planting such a fancy edifice to knowledge on the southeast edge of downtown rather than locating it in a distant suburb.

Years ago, I’d driven half-human junior-high-school ghetto-rodents in school buses outta this area to the swank suburb of La Jolla, for the Voluntary Ethnic Transfer Program.  Now those kids are men and women.  Bless ’em.

And here comes our bus.  Some Black & Asian Americans & me wait some more.  The driver, a skinny old White man in uniform & with rock-star-length white hair under his Capt’n cap, steps out of the bus & does his chores, one after another, an endless string of ’em.  Finally we are allowed to deposit our bags into the belly of the beast.  The driver finishes up some more chores.  He takes our tickets.  We climb aboard and wait some more.  Then at last, at last, the old codger climbs behind the wheel, says garbled things on the loud speaker and we roll outta town ~ get waylaid in El Cajon where more folks board and we wait some more.  Then we head up over the mountains & down into the chartreuse desert ~ a-glide to Arizona.

Sooner or later when you ride Greyhound the pretty woman gets on the bus.  This time it happens in Yuma.  She come walking across the shopping-center parking lot arm-n-arm with her stud ~ a Hispanic skin-head in a baseball cap & t-shirt.  They look smug and happy and we all know what they’ve been doing.  The young lady jiggles along in a sleeveless low-neckline tight black-denim fit.  She looks pretty good from a distance.  She looks even better bobbing alone up the aisle ~ slender & long & pale & freckled & strands of long red-hair falling out of a sloppy bun ~ here come da’ White Girl!

She sits directly across the aisle from me.  I rip off the glue and avert my eyes ~ look out my own window at a quaint Jack In The Box across the street & think, “Oh my oh my.”

Once the bus gets out of Yuma, the desert landscape gets significantly enthralling, the sacred feminine entity gets significantly relaxed, and I find myself to be a dirty old man glancing there & here & staring there, in Picture Book Heaven.

Then the plot thickens ~ like a brick slammed up against the side of the head.  It absolutely knocks me out ~ when her warm thigh bumps into the suddenly no longer empty seat next to me & a voice girlishly bubbles & perks next my ear, “Are you Rawclyde?”

I turn my head and boom ~ I’m out.  The blackout is complete.  Apparently I can’t handle pretty women in my old age.  I don’t know how long this blackout lasts.  When I come to, her hand is squeezing my knee & she is worriedly asking me, “Are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay,” growl I.  “And, yes, I am Rawclyde!”

“Glad to meet you.”  She holds out her hand.

Limply I grab it.  My head is spinning.

Her delicate fingers are warm and cool.  Point-blankly & with outlandishly green green eyes she says, “I’m Submissivania Whapp, your partner on this mission.”  When she smiles, her teeth magnificently ricochet the desert light from outside our galloping coach.  With a roll of her eyeballs she adds,  “I’m the White House’s other favorite secret agent.”

She has knocked me out again.

~ by Rawclyde!


Mysterious secret-agent mission…



GUN 2013

Chapter 4


Another e-mail by high-tech magic greets me this morn. It’s another one from the president. This one is written in code. Alarms sound forth in my cobwebbed mind as mine eyes decipher the call of a new secret-agent mission.

My delicious wanton wife, Patriotism, has returned home from endless nights of frolic with the lucky black feller. My true love now demands I kneel before her in voluntary submissive worship.

I tidy up the mattress in the corner beneath the book shelves in Spin & Marty’s home office. I tidy it up for the dogs who follow Spin from room to room every day. When the artist parks infront of the computer in here the dogs like to lay on this mattress ~ sometimes all four of them. I only worry about the little dirty one. I’ve been sleeping on it almost all winter when the dogs are upstairs at night. I am only another stray given shelter from the cruel cruel world by the benevolent Spin & Marty. Marty is presently teaching first grade in a public elementary school.  These fine folks’ house, in an undisclosed location, is ruled by cats and dogs more so than by they, the mortgage slayers. These animals are job security for me, or were, because I do, or did, all the sweeping.

The White House’s favorite secret agent laces up his boots and casts his meager possessions into his rucksack, dons this burden upon his back, in a flash is out the front-room door. The pace has finally picked up. I am on the roller coaster again. Life is an adventure.  I coyly slip through the deep tangy shadows of early morn, having risen to go forth duty-bound, before the sun opens his fiery eyes.

The boulevard, usually choked with traffic, is relatively quiet. A few homeless stir in this dark world. A car slowly tools thru a green light. The traffic light for me remains red. I walk thru it, head for the trolley maybe a mile away.

I am too old for this. A hike less than a mile up the street unravels my weak physical condition. At a donut shop I request a carmel-frosting-covered long john & a hot cup of coffee ~ pay for it with social-security money ~ sit down next to a Mexican.

Yours truly will be in Prescott by nightfall.

~ by Rawclyde!