The Sombrero Man

“You know,” Jack insisted angrily, “Chico and the Man was one. I know you know that show. Now go ahead, Beanie, try to tell me you don’t know that show and I’ll smack it right down your lying throat.” 

The old Mexican remained where he leaned against the truck. He pushed the brim of his baseball hat higher on his forehead revealing the tan line and allowing the evening breeze to graze his sweat. He didn’t look at his passenger now sitting under a tree resembling a large fern than a shade producer. Until the tire blew on the old ford his hitchhiker, introduced to him as Jack, had rode beside him talking non-stop about anything Mexican. He was even dressed as a store-bought-tourist-Mexican boasting a sombrero and poncho that would have been better left on a movie set.

The tire blowing was a relief. It had been his hope that Jack would see the need to move on. He even wished him well on his way. Instead, Jack shook his hand and meandered to the side of the road to plant himself under the tree, while George changed the tire.

“Sure, I know Chico and the Man, good show.”

“That’s what I’m saying, man,” Jack reinforced, “there used to be more Mexicans on TV than there are now. It’s not right, man.”

“Sure, sure,” he muttered. He found it best to agree with crazy people. It causes them less stress.

He was well acquainted with crazy people, mostly from his wife’s side, but still there was his Uncle Bill. The incident of him riding around town on a mule backwards during the Fourth of July parade was an embarrassment the family has yet to recover from. Of course, that may have been more drunken foolishness than craziness. This guy he picked up outside of Dallas, this Jack dude dressed up like a Halloween party contestant, now he really is crazy.

“I just think there’s something wrong with a Mexican being named George O’Malley,” Jack continued, occasionally kicking the heel of his shoe into the desert dirt. He tilted the sombrero down to block more of the sun. “Why aren’t you named Jesus or Pedro or something relative to your race?”

George straightened up then,  “Relative to my race? Man, I was born in Houston from a white mother who never married, thus the George O’Malley, and no body dresses like that,” he waved his hand in the direction of Jack. “Unless you are making a movie or something, it’s down right offensive. Why don’t you explain that to me?”

He folded his arms and stared at the man sitting in the desert dirt.

Jack sighed.

“It’s like this man,” he replied, “I gotta belong somewhere. You know what I mean?”

George squatted down in the shade of the truck and listened as his hitchhiker unfolded a lonely story of a life searching for his family, for his beginning, and his place in the world. Jack was a lost soul, in and out of foster homes, never trusting anyone, never belonging anywhere, unable to hold a job longer than the second paycheck and hopelessly lonely. George could see it; the nervousness of the man’s actions would make anyone cross the street to avoid him. He muttered to himself a lot, and answered his own questions and when he wasn’t doing those charming traits he was pretending, at least George hoped he was pretending to chew a wad of tobacco and spit the juice. He never saw anything come from the man’s mouth. There was no obsessive wiping of the corners where some would escape. George noticed he was pretending a lot of things, like a child trying to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“So, I just started walking. I bought this outfit at a truck stop back in Oklahoma.  I thought it was a nice way to say, ‘hey, being Mexican is cool,’ you know, man? Being Mexican is cool.”

His voice trailed off then and he turned his gaze off to the right away from George and the truck, out to the desert and the miles they had traveled.

Suddenly, George was feeling charitable to the young man. He had a large family, a home to go back to, children to hug him, a wife to love him, a place to belong and this guy—for whatever reason had nothing. So, he wanted to be something he wasn’t, we have all done that once before, haven’t we? Who is he to judge this poor soul?

“Jack, maybe you are trying too hard. Maybe you just need to pick a town and settle down, stay for awhile and make friends.”

Jack squinted at the sunset.  “There’s dust coming,” he said.

George stood up and scanned the west. “Yep, that’ll be my cousin bringing the spare. Hey, you’ll like him Jack, his name is Sanchez.”

“What’s his first name?”

“Mario,” George muttered, “but, hey so what’s in a name? Tell you what, you come on home with us we’ll give you plenty to eat, good drink, music and a huge crowd we like to call family, what’daya say?”

Jack stood stretching his legs. He rubbed his butt and then pulled his jeans from the crack. He pretended to spit fake chew before answering.

“No thanks, man, I think I’ll move on.” 

He removed the sombrero and poncho throwing them in the back of George’s truck.

“Maybe one of your kids will like them,” he mumbled and headed toward the desert.

George stepped forward and grabbed his arm, “Jack, don’t go.”

Jack pulled his arm free glaring at the old man. The two stood for a moment, time hanging as though it waited for the next beat, the next second. Slowly Jack grinned and George relaxed to step back.

“You are welcome to come home with me is all I’m saying,” George said stepping back again.

Jack nodded, still grinning and grunted some sort of reply. He gave the old man a quick salute and headed into the desert.

The old man watched him for a long time but as the truck approached from the west he turned toward his pick up and leaned on the back of truck staring at the load of concrete bags in the bed. He was going to build that back patio this weekend that his wife wanted. Jack could have helped him.

“Hey, what’cha doing riding around without a spare?”

His cousin was leaning out of the driver’s window as he slowed beside the truck.

“Here you are pulling me away from the party just to come rescue your butt.”

His cousin slammed the door of his old truck as he moved toward the back for the tire. He was still grinning about the situation.

George couldn’t help but think of Jack walking across a desert with a setting sun and cold night ahead of him. He would have liked his cousin, Mario. Too bad he couldn’t connect to people.

“What’s this?” Mario held up Jack’s discarded sombrero.

“Hitchhiker I picked up,” George answered.

Mario looked around for the hitchhiker and seeing no one but George, over emphasized the action of a shrug.  “Where is he? Did you eat him?”

George rolled the spare to his truck.

“I asked him to come home with us for dinner but he walked off into the desert, said he just wanted to go on his way. He was a crazy one. The man had some funny ideas about Mexicans.”

He straightened up from his task with a groan.
“There, let’s go home.” He slapped his cousin on the shoulder as he passed. “I could eat a whole cow I’m so hungry.”

“Crazy huh? George, what did this guy look like?”  Mario followed him to the truck and held the door from closing.

George pulled on the door and when it caught from Mario’s pull he looked up.

“I don’t know. Kinda of young, maybe 30’s, tall, skinny.  I don’t know, like a guy. Why? What’s up with you?”

Mario released his pull on the door allowing George to shut it.

“There was a report on the radio as I drove out here. Some dude that was on a killing spree in Oklahoma and they think he’s headed for the border….”

“Not this kid,” George interrupted him. “This kid was just a lost soul trying to find his place. He was crazy not criminal.”

“Is there really a difference?” Mario asked.

He raised his eyebrows at George and then tapped the door of the truck.

“Well, let’s get out of here. Your wife is already fuming about keeping dinner heated for us.”

Mario had to u-turn to come in behind George for the trip home. George went ahead of him glancing across the desert as he drove. The sun was setting but even with the fading light there were no images on the horizon to indicate a figure walking into the haze of heat. It wouldn’t have been him; he was just some kid not a killer. George touched the sombrero and poncho lying on the seat of the truck. He couldn’t help wondering, was he taking home a costume for his son to play with or a disguise that helped a killer escape?


Word count 1550