The Last Narrow Gauge Train Robbery. Robert K. Swisher Jr.
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knew that money was coming to town. Everybody was in a rush to come out with the first Narrow Gauge T-shirts and other assorted gear that comes with success.
And money did come. Texas money, Iowa money, everybody with their sweaters and cameras and walking shorts and squeaking leather boots came. Came to sit for five hours and watch the mountains roll by while being banged and bounced along the tiny narrow gauge tracks.
It is a beautiful ride, a fantasy for the overworked and misplaced people of our country. It is a culture shock. There are no buildings, no coke stands along the way, no cops, no stop signs. Only the wind and trees, grouse and jays, wild canaries, deer and elk, a few disgruntled bear holding tenaciously to a last small primitive area of the state, and the small, coal-powered engine, the last of its kind, taking remnants of humanoids over the mountains.
On some days the sun shines, and the mountains simmer in the sun. On most days during the summer, the mountains rest with the clouds, and the trees and canyons peek at you as if trying to hide as you clink by. All in all, most people like the ride. Taking two to three rolls of film, oohing and ahhing at the scenery around them, engrossed but a little afraid. What if the train breaks, what if they have to sleep in the woods? But there was never a what if, only the chug, chug of the little train. The train brought back life, filled with tourists. No great hulks of miners, no Indians, no gunfighters or outlaws filling the cars. No men looking for a new life, gold or silver. No men out to settle a country. Just men and women, trapped men and women, pulling little kids with suckers while their cameras bounce around their necks.
To Bill Masterson and his friends, Chama was a place; a collection of years and laughter, or telling old jokes and laughing at each other. Of getting drunk in the Wagon Wheel and looking at the tits. It was a fantasy lived out each year. A meeting of old anti-establishment hippies, too old, too tired, too filled with families and responsibilities to fight on; but, still brave enough for a week once a year to dream and laugh with old crazy friends and talk about things they would never do but always wanted to. They would meet and laugh and go to the mountains for their week, and then they would part and go back to their world away from the mountains and Chama. Leave to remember the trout they caught and the elk they saw and the puff of smoke the Narrow Gauge left as it pulled out of town. And each in his truck would feel sad, each alone, each going a different direction. But there would be another year. For a year they would dream of the next fishing trip. It was a staff, a caring bond with a part of mankind. It was like rock and fire and the wind, solid, life-giving. It was a reason in this life- shattering, demoralizing, rat race world, to be alive.
Bill Masterson stopped the pickup on the outskirts of town and got out. The yellow Ford was spotless. The green two-horse trailer stood out from the truck. Bill walked back and looked into the trailer. The two horses pawed and snorted while pee flowed onto the highway. The truck cost nothing sitting next to the car all year. Washed and vacuumed, its only function was to remain washed and vacuumed for this one ride to the mountains. About the truck he heard very little from his wife. But the horses, eighty bucks a month for each one to eat and shit. “Jesus,” his wife would say when the kids were in bed, “all they do is eat and shit, eat and shit, and once a year carry your camping gear up into the mountains to see your old hippie friends.” Bill had heard it so many times that he said nothing, until one day. One winter, while patting Slick’s head, she said it. He turned calmly, looked at her squinted eyes, and spoke, “If you don’t like it, get a job.” From that day on, nothing was said about the yellow truck, the green horse trailer, or the two glue bags he loved so dearly.
Bill breathed deep the clean mountain air. Down the street he could see the Wagon Wheel bar. His heart thumped loudly in his chest as he walked towards the bar. Dear God, he thought, let everybody be here.
Standing at the door, he noticed immediately that Saavedra must still own the bar. Two women with huge tits lazed behind the counter. They smiled at him as he sat down. He ordered a draft and wondered how he could possibly get the barmaids to take off their blouses. Watching the girl walk away from the bar, he chuckled to himself. There were a lot of years between hippie and father of four, between freedom and working for the Fire Department. He gazed into his beer. He felt good. For a period of time, there would be nothing to bother his mind.
He looked at the waitress and raised his glass for another one. He had made it. The other barmaid started toward him with his beer. Bill studied closely the outline of her nipples, an old adage he always remembered, women with big nipples get turned on more than girls with small ones. The girl smiled without inhibition, she knew her tits kept her employed. Resting her tits on the bar, she grinned once more before walking back to talk to her friend. Bill rubbed his face, took several deep breaths, and thought of his wife. The more he thought, the more he wanted to sleep with the barmaid. She was, indeed, the hottest thing he had seen in months or at least since the cute young blonde he had pulled out of the burning apartment wearing nothing but a dark nightgown and crotchless panties. Even during a fire one could appreciate good pussy.
Bill sipped his beer and waited for the others. He turned in the chair and looked out the window. It was dark now, and the gold Miller sign made his reflection bounce back from the window. What he saw didn’t make him unhappy. With his square shoulders, dark hair, and neatly trimmed mustache, he was still good-looking. His hair didn’t recede and he still pissed with vigor. But inside he was tired. Lord, here he was, grabbing his time like his father — raising kids, playing it so straight, smiling and talking when talked to — wanting to do anything besides be a fireman in Albuquerque. All in all, there were worse things in life than having been unable to beat the system. He knew one thing. The longer one fucked with the man, the better his chances were of going to jail. It was a lot easier to be bored than brave. He turned from the window and sipped his beer. Down the street the Narrow Gauge engine blew off excess steam before shutting down for the night. The shrill sound echoed through the town, sounding alone and lost.
CHAPTER 2
Ronnie Wild pulled the jeep pickup into the parking lot of the Wagon Wheel. The back of the truck was filled with his fishing gear and the food. Last year he had inherited next year’s food list. He stepped out of the truck and stretched. It was a long drive from Los Angeles to Chama, but it was good. Each year the difference between the two seemed greater. After the lights and noise and hustle of LA, Chama was almost not breathing. But God it was good. Each year he would see the edge of Chama and remember the small cabin he had lived in.
It was here they had met, all of them, the group. He had come out with his girl right off the streets of ’Frisco, flying on any item that was supposed to enhance your life, groove your mind, or get you fucked up. The mountains around Chama taught him life. Snow was cold, work was a part of life. Just because one stayed stoned and grooved on nature did not mean that one did not have to eat and, most important, just because a pregnancy might result didn’t mean that one had to forego the pleasure of screwing.
After two winters and two summers he had dragged himself back to LA, let his mother hug him, put up his hippie flower-child bride and baby, and went back to college. In time, he had his law school degree. But he never forgot the mountains. No matter what case he was working on, no matter what the trouble, he could move his thoughts to the sound of the old wood stove and the breathtaking sight of the stars at night, and relax. The mountains were always close to Ronnie. There were many times when he felt like leaving his home, his Jaguar, his Mercedes, his kids with their motorbikes and surfboards, and returning to the mountains. But he never did. He settled for this week, his week with the old guys, converted like him.
Ronnie walked into the bar and saw the back of Bill’s head. He sat down without speaking and looked at his old friend. Bill smiled and the two men looked at each other. After a few moments, they shook hands. Bill waved for another beer.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Bill toasted. Their glasses clanked and they chugged the beer. Both laughed, stood, and hugged each other.
“How are the kids?” Bill asked.
Ronnie chuckled, “One smokes pot, but not like us. He just does it … you know. When we started, it was a cause, something, remember?”
Bill agreed silently.
“One kid likes pills