Jack Andersson
Crossroads Fairy
A love story.
"Truth be told," she said, "that GĂĽero is quite a prize, isn't he? Like a hundred years old or so… Pure northern light. A stoned angel or some shit. Jesus! Playing his damned Lakota love-making flute. Fuck, I want 'm! Tag 'm as mine. His par de huevos looks like a shaman's mushroom pouch, so hairy and enticing – you can see it changin' into a fuckin' death cap as it slowly falls down into the pithole of Creation. ¡Madre mĂa! I think I've wet my panties…"
The intro to Canny with Two Dollar Guitar was playing on some washed-out dude's Electra radio. It set the scene perfectly, quite spiritually in fact, like a lukewarm puff from a shitty AMF Shovelhead submarine.
Mary took a step forward, as if she didn't know how to dance, wiggly, giggly, like Lilith, Adams first wife, born out of God's spite. "There's really no need to fight", she thought. "Must get there, on the pole, yaknow, Born Free, like dancing with a dead mans toad, in a straight line, on an old asphalt road."
The GĂĽero was totally off, fell over his Big Twin to the left, perhaps looking for some imaginary cleft, already steaming, naked, exposing himself entirely to the Frisco-like crowd.
"Hey Mama Sue," Mary shouted emphatically, "I'll ride with Mr. Babaloo! Love 'ya. Back in a week. Kisses."
"For sure, Baby M," Mama Sue echoed back, "but remember, girl, he isn't the son of Man, might not even be related, so you can't start cryin' over his long curly hair, washin' his feet or boots, or some other shit, yaknow. OK? Remember that! This isn't the EDR. Love 'ya!"
"We'll do!" Mary confirmed and turned around to face the lonesome Harlista.
In a wink she stretched out her long right leg and zipped herself down on the cold rear fender of Mr. Babaloo's Chop-Chop Racer. The man felt the presence, the lovely smell of Mexican weed and independent pussy, and began to weep. Softly. Strangely. But, as it all kicked in, the ruff pilgrim's lizard tears were caught by the beautiful chamaca's insect wings, as were the roaring sound from the cold-started Evolution engine. The open straight pipes sang, the unlicked wire-spoked wheels started turning…
"Holy dog shit," he muffled, "this is what I've been waiting for my whole fuckin' life. MarĂa, beautiful MarĂa, fuck, think I love 'ya. MariposĂta… little butterfly. Truthfully. Forever and ever…"
"¡Cálmate, GĂĽero, cálmate!" she whispered forcefully into his left ear. "No blow job without a So-Cal cheese throb… but hey, listen, when you've gone down on me, I'll go down on you, then, Jesus, we'll be just like, yaknow, married or somethin', para siempre, be it on a lovely green sunny meadow or by the side of the fuckin' road in the rain. That's love, pure and simple. Like poetry. In xĂłchitl in cuĂcatl. Flowers and songs. A real hisser kisser event. But not now Querido, we need to roll. Not enough time. Sexualmente."
"Yeah, you're right, Babe." Mr. Babaloo said and put his right hand on the loose throttle. "Fuck This, Let's Ride!"
The mind-set of Mary, the Crossroads Fairy, had always been clear, and now she was on her way to tackle Man's greatest fear – to be free! Her daddy's '64 Panhead had been trashed, but this '84 Blockhead could not be bashed. "This is just perfect", she thought, "a home away from home, a dome on the way to the golden gates of Rome".
In the distance the left-behind Mule Skinners could hear the midsummer song of True Love and Bewilderment. Mary from Magdalena, New Mexico, was saved!
Mr. Babaloo sighed as he gave his black steed a bit more thrust to gain maximum speed, mumbled something in his native angelic tongue and thought of Stanton, Harry Dean, and Paris, a small Texican scene, on the border to the In Between.
"It's like a CanciĂłn Mixteca, isn't it, Babe?" he bluntly shouted out into wind for Mary to hear.
"It sure is, Querido!" she whispered back. "It sure is!"
CanciĂłn Mixteca with Ry Cooder (feat. Harry Dean Stanton)
Jack Andersson
October 1, 2017.
Harry Dean Stanton (July 14, 1926 – September 15, 2017)
You want people to feel something when you tell a story, whether they feel happy or whether they feel sad.