Free The Water Museum by Luis Alberto Urrea Page A

pronghorn at a rave. He was WHOLE. He was fully REALIZED. His high-tops were full of freakin’ Flubber.
    He pointed at Horses.
    “Hey, Smoke Too Much!” he said. “They call you boo in Louisiana!”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Cajun guys say Poo-Yi before they kick your ass!”
    “That right.”
    “Boo!”
    “Don’t call me boo.”
    “Right!” Hubbard agreed. “Right, right, right? Who, me? Never. Not once. Never said boo in my life. I’m so amped.”
    “How’s about that,” muttered Horses, fiddling with knobs and the ignition. He got out. He stretched his back. “Your car’s broke, for sure,” he said.
    “Not my car. Not really. I mean, I paid for it, sure. But it’s hers. Still, I forked over the cash. Every cent! So it should be mine. Right? Did you see that crow? I own it now, I guess.” He patted the Volvo. “My war pony!”
    Horses crossed his arms and leaned against the car. Butt on the fender.
    “You done paid every cent,” he prodded.
    “Right! Right-right. Every goddamned cent. Put her through grad school. How do you like that? Took her five years to get a stinking M.A.! Not to mention five years of couples therapy. Out of my pocket.”
    Horses listened as the whole sad story fell out.
    “Smoke. Can I call you Smoke? Or do you prefer Mr. Too Much? Have you ever been in therapy? Did I ask you that? Whatever. Probably not. What do you do? Sweat lodge, am I right? Can we do a sweat lodge? As I was saying: therapy. That was the key, you see. The key to everything. Second only to recovery. Recover this!” he cried, grabbing his crotch.
    “Whoa, now. You’re getting skittish.”
    Hubbard sadly noted, “We’d even made out our serenity contract right before she left.”
    Horses looked bored with this happy horseshit.
    Horses said, “Pop the hood latch.”
    Hubbard reached in and yanked the handle.
    “Oh,” he sighed, starting his long descent. “I suppose it was all inner-child-related.”
    Horses, bent into the maw of the car, said, “Inner child? You got an inner child?” He backed away. “What are you, pregnant?”
    Then he laughed: HAW!
    He walked around in a circle. Shook his head. HAW!
    He raised his hands as if warding off a blow.
    “Just funnin’,” he said.
    He reached into the engine compartment and pulled out the oil dipstick.
    “Got a rag?” he said.
    Hubbard reached in his pocket and pulled out his wife’s panties.
    Horses said, “Jesus Christ! Get rid of that!”
    But Horses didn’t need a rag after all. The dipstick was clean. Shiny. Devoid of oil. He whirled upon Hubbard and brandished it like a fencer approaching with a foil.
    “Look at that,” he said.
    “What.”
    “No oil.”
    “So?”
    “So—no oil.”
    “So what?”
    “How far did you drive this rig?”
    “I don’t know. Boston to Florida. Texas. Here.”
    “Five thousand miles?” Horses cried. “Six? Are you kiddin’ me?”
    “It was a long journey,” Hubbard declaimed. “Perhaps epic in scope. Still, it had to encompass my grief and sense of…”
    “Bud,” said Horses. “You drove six thousand miles and never checked your oil!”
    Hubbard sneered.
    “It’s, like, a Volvo,” he said. “Built to last. Duh.”
    Horses slammed the hood.
    “I tell you what, kola,” he said. “You done toasted this engine dead.”
    Hubbard, fully into his crash now, hung his head.
    “Graveyard dead.” He said.
    *  *  *
    What Don Her Many Horses did not want to do was to give this clown a ride to Colorado. He could either head on out, or stall long enough for somebody else to come along and take over the rescue operation. Ol’ Mr. White Bread could hop in their car and be on his way.
    Hubbard had started in on his recent domestic crisis again.
    Horses said, “Hey, get over it.”
    “Excuse me—it’s only been a week. Not even a week.”
    “Yeah, and a week ought to be long enough for you to get over it. Way I see it, you came out ahead.”
    “I. Was. Abandoned.”
    “You was set free. She set