Five Dumb Guys Walk Into a Bar
A Novel
by
Scott E. Newton
Copyright 2011 Scott E. Newton
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events or locales or things, is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1 - Five Dumb Guys Walk Into a Bar
As five guys walk through the door, the patrons warily note their entrance while also studiously appearing to ignore them—glancing up and then quickly returning their attention to their libations. Three Mexicans are playing pool. Some old desert rats are slouched over beers at the far end of the long bar. The barmaid is standing chatting with the desert rats.
Such is the way of things in a bar like this.
They come through the door and look the place over, assessing its demeanor and the clientele. Then it seems each knows his role. One heads for the pool table and begins a conversation with the Mexicans. Another stops at the jukebox near the door. One goes toward the head. Two proceed directly to the bar.
The barmaid comes down the bar, regarding them with a suspicious smile.
“Howdy, gentlemen. What’ll ya have?”
“Ah, my dear,” says the tall, thin goateed one, “we’d love five vodka tonics. SKYY vodka if you have it, or better yet Hendrix Electric.”
“Hendrix Electric? Five SKYY tonics coming up.”
The shorter and clean-shaven one, to ease her misgivings, says, “I’m Beez. My esteemed friend here is none other than King Salmon.”
“Sure,” she says. “Next you’re going to tell me you are mightily parched after the long ride you just had, right?”
“We might do just that.”
She looks them over as she mixes the drinks. They are definitely a conundrum. King Salmon looks more like an aging hippie than a king. He’s wearing faded jeans, an AC/DC t-shirt, and a baseball hat that says Byte Me. And Beez? What is that about? His Tilley Hat, faded denim shirt, and dark green cargo pants make him look like a mercenary.
She is still wary as she places the five drinks on the bar. After all, these five guys have just walked in, scoped out her bar, and then dispersed as if they were up to something. On the other hand, they seemed laid back, not coming on too strong or anything.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Beez and Mr. Salmon. I’m Pinky.” She shakes hands with each of them.
King Salmon nods and says, “Of course you are.” As if he had expected her answer.
“Be right back,” says Beez. He picks up three drinks and heads off to make deliveries.
Pinky is intrigued by King Salmon’s reaction to her name and asks him, “Do I know you guys?”
“Doubt it,” he says. “It just seems like whenever we visit a bar we meet a Pinky.”
The Corner Bar is L-shaped. It had once been someone’s house; now, its inner walls have been removed, and the entrance opens onto the 90-degree turn at the base of a great big L-shaped bar. The bar stretches straight ahead down the long side where the living room and kitchen were. A pool table is to the right down the shorter leg, which used to be the garage. The place is dark, the only light coming from the lamp hanging above the pool table, a florescent tube behind the bar, the jukebox by the door, and the various flickering neon beer ad signs in the curtained off windows. In a bar like this, dark is better.
The Five Dumb Guys, for that is who they are, had come through the door in single file. At first glance, they appeared innocent enough, until you looked closer and decided you were not quite sure. Were they just here to have a drink or to buy the place? Maybe they were looking for someone, with some nefarious objective in mind. It’s hard to tell, but it’s clear they are here for a reason. They walked in watchful, wary, like a pack of dogs checking out a new territory. The only thing missing was that they didn’t piss in the corners. Actually, one went straight to the head, so symbolically at least there was a marking of territory.
They are all over fifty. They range from wiry to stout. Two are bearded. One limps, but somehow you think he was meant to. There is no pattern to their attire: random caps, three bareheaded, t-shirts with various logos, jeans, sneakers, hiking boots, and a pair of sandals. They move about confidently, but there is no leader or alpha male, as at any time any one of them seems to be directing. They might be on a mission, and you hope it doesn’t involve you. Or they might just be stopping by for drinks.
At the pool table, Beez hands a drink to his comrade, and after being introduced to the Mexicans goes over to the jukebox and hands off another SKYY tonic. Here a serious discussion ensues regarding music selections, followed by the insertion into the machine of what appear to be several large bills and a rapid pushing of buttons.
Willy and Waylon’s “On the Road Again” begins playing.
The Five Dumb Guys have established themselves, and the bar has regained its equilibrium. The one who went to the men’s room, presumably having officially marked his territory, joins King Salmon and Pinky at the bar. He picks up a drink, saying, “Dr. SKYY, I presume?”
Laughing at his own joke, he introduces himself. “Hello, beautiful lady. I’m Big Black Jim.”
Pinky smiles and throws up her hands in exasperation. “Of course you are,” she says. “I’m Pinky. Pleased to meet you, Big Black Jim.” She shakes hands again.
“You have met my friend King Salmon, I imagine?”
She assures him she has and adds, “And Beez over there. I can’t wait to meet the last two.” Pinky smiles, putting her hand to her cheek in mock awe and anticipation.
Pinky is in her mid-thirties; her shoulder-length hair is blonde, with a few vermillion streaks. She’s exceptionally fit, and the Five Dumb Guys will later debate at length as to whether any augmentation has been involved. Her silky-thin, light blue blouse has two strategic buttons undone, and her jeans are just tight enough. Her large, dangling pink earrings could be a concession to her name. The Dumb Guys at the bar are infatuated, and as the night wears on and the SKYY flows, this affliction will spread.
The jukebox starts playing, “Are You Lonesome Tonight.”
“We’re going to need another round soon,” Big Black Jim says. That first SKYY has gone down smooth and fast, and he is liking this bar. Quiet, good tunes on the jukebox, people minding their own business, and a beautiful barmaid named Pinky. An auspicious beginning for a Five Dumb Guys trip.
“You boys are thirsty. And you seem to be thoroughly scoping out my bar. What have you decided?” Even as they flirt with her, Pinky is watching these two closely.
“Stick around. We might just buy the place,” Big Black Jim tells her, with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile.
Pinky indicates the group of Mexican pool players and says, “Look out, these guys might be Mexican Mafia. Your friend does not want to mess with them.”
She says this completely deadpan, so they can’t tell if she’s joking or serious.
King Salmon smiles at her. “Not to worry—that’s King Ron. He can make friends with anyone. I don’t believe he has ever pissed anyone off . . . well, besides a few of our wives.”
Pinky raises an eyebrow.
King Ron himself, having left a stack of quarters on the side of the pool table, walks over and joins them at the bar.
“Greetings, gorgeous barmaid. I’ve got the next game with Pablo. He’s cool.”
“Pleased to meet you, too. So you’re King Ron. I’m Pinky,” she says, smiling at him and shaking his hand, “although I think I’ll just have to call you Mountain Man.”
“Hmm, I have been called that before,” he admits, eyeing her carefully. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I know many things,” Pinky says, with a grandiose, mysterious tone. “This is very strange. Here I am whiling away the hours in my Corner Bar, and what should happen but the bunch of you show up.”
“Surely no coincidence,” replies King Salmon.
Pinky nods. “No coincidence indeed. First, there’s you, who ought to be Lefty. Then this one, who I will agree is damn big but not so black. And now this mountain man here,” she says, indicating King Ron. “What the hell, that makes Two Kings and an Ace of Spades. And a Beez over by the jukebox, with I’m afraid to ask who?”
“The Beez, not a Beez,” Big Black Jim says.
The jukebox is playing, “It Ain’t Me Babe.”
Normal and Beez have finished programming that very machine and arrive to join the others at the bar.
King Salmon does the final introduction. “Pinky, Normal; Normal, Pinky.”
Pinky smiles and shakes hands once again. “Normal, does this mean there is really a normal one of you guys?” She laughs.
“Well, as normal as can be. Sometimes we use Norm so as not to confuse anyone.”
Pinky rolls her eyes.
Normal seems genuinely happy to meet her. “My god, I can’t believe it, another Pinky. I am very pleased to meet the most bewitching Pinky. And I hope soon to be another Goddess as well, hey Beez?” he says glancing at Beez, who nods agreement. “I do love your bar, and your jukebox. Great tunes.”
Beez remarks, “You have now officially met all of the Five Dumb Guys.”
The Five Dumb Guys began by accident some twenty years ago. They were acquainted, all working for the same company, but not particularly friends. Two of them were sitting in a cubical talking about going camping, and the other three randomly happened by. Before they knew it, all five were up in Yosemite, and since then they have taken as many as a half a dozen trips a year.
They didn’t start out as the Five Dumb Guys. Early on, they even invited others along on their trips, but soon they discovered that no one else got it. Sometimes the trips were dumb, and other times they just did dumb things. They began journeys at midnight, sledded down ice falls at 2 am, camped on twelve feet of snow, prepared green salads over a campfire, forgotten sleeping bags, tangled with bears, lost all their food to raccoons, and the list goes on. Other people thought their antics were stupid, but they knew them to be acts of creativity and rebellion.
In their daily lives, these five were some of the top troubleshooters in their industry. Between them, their experience covered very nearly the history of computers. Their expertise was vast: processor design, hardware, firmware, software, microcode, management, engineering, and systems analysis. They fixed the really hard problems. Five dumb guys indeed. Perhaps the Five Dumb Guys was their escape. Their trips had real meaning.
“Well, I guess my world is now complete.” Pinky grins at them and opens her arms wide, as if to embrace them all. This of course further endears her.
They often run into barmaids named Pinky, and some of them get elevated to Goddess status. Being attractive and flirtatious are criteria for sure.
Pinky smiles and stands back to give them a serious once over, maybe deciding whether she is charmed by their act, or even if it is an act.
“We need another round,” says King Ron. “And by all means mix one of whatever you would like for yourself, on us of course.” King Ron’s feeling mellow. This bar suits him just fine. And he’s thinking, This Pinky is a babe.
The jukebox is now playing, “Do You Love Me” by the Contours.
Pinky mixes six SKYY tonics, a number the Dumb Guys are quick to notice, and which pleases them immensely. The third and final criterion for Goddess status is to drink with them.
She hands around the drinks, and raising her glass to take a sip, addresses them all: “So, who are you guys, and what are you doing in my bar? You seem to have come in here and pretty much taken the place over. In a very subtle sort of way though, I might add. Don’t cause any trouble, I won’t stand for it.” She sweeps her arm around indicating her bar in general and ending with her finger pointing directly at them.
“Trouble? Us? We’re innocent.”
“Hell no, we’re peaceful and friendly.”
“No, no. Just here having a few drinks.”
“We love your bar. And you, too!”
“We’re the Five Dumb Guys.”
Her bar is the Corner Bar in Mesquite, Nevada, a typical local dive in the desert. She doesn’t own it, but it’s her bar nonetheless. Even the owner, some old retired snowbird, defers to her on the rare occasions he comes in. The desert rats at the end of the bar, as well as the Mexican gangster pool players, are all under her thumb. She plans to be in firm control of these five as well.
“Five Dumb Guys? I’m afraid to ask how you got that name, but I suspect it’s appropriate.”
King Salmon tries to sound charming as he answers. “We’re just old friends. We get together a few times a year to go camping, or to see the World of Outlaws, stuff like that. Nothing dumb about it.” He takes a large sip of his drink.
“I love dirt track,” Pinky exclaims. “Especially WOO.”
“We go to tracks all over California,” Normal tells her. Normal is a connoisseur of dirt track racing, whether sprint cars, midgets, or motor cycles. Normal’s as taken with Pinky as the rest of them, and even though he is devoted to his wife, he will dream.
“But how do you all know each other? Are you brothers, cousins, or something?” Pinky asks.
Big Black Jim says, “Nothing like that. We’ve known each other for a long time; we originally all worked for the same company. In fact, we all worked on the same product at the same plant way back when: old mainframes, the big iron. That plant closed years ago and guys have moved around. Three live in the San Francisco area and two in So Cal. We’re computer geeks; three hardware and two software.”
“Dinks and pukes,” says Normal.
“Yeah, but nobody ever knows which is which,” King Ron observes.
“I bet Mountain Man King Ron is a hardware guy. You look more like a back country guide or something than a computer geek,” Pinky says. “How long has this whole Five Dumb Guy thing been going on?”
“We go back a long way, at least to the ’70s, thirty some odd years for sure.”
“Wow, and you all still get together after all those years? That’s impressive.”
“Truckin” is on the jukebox.
“Don’t go away,” Pinky says. Then she heads off to get beers for the desert rats and the pachucos at the pool table.
The Five Dumb Guys exchange a toast, congratulating themselves on discovering yet another great dive bar, with yet another awesome Pinky for a barmaid. They’re getting near a level three buzz as this third SKYY nears its end.
“We need more SKYYs,” says King Ron.
There are nods of agreement as they all admire Pinky crossing the room.
On her return, Pinky automatically starts mixing them drinks, indicating “one for myself?” with a nod to King Ron, who indicates “damn right” with a corresponding nod.
Then she asks, “So is it always you same five guys? And what brings you to beautiful downtown Mesquite? Where are you headed?”
Beez says, “It is definitely always the same five of us, has been for more than twenty years.”
She’s starting to look at them a little more seriously. Like maybe she thinks there is something more to them being here than just randomly dropping by her bar. In fact, a couple of the guys have noticed that her demeanor grew a little more serious while she was off delivering drinks.
“And I still want to know why you are Dumb Guys.”
“You should get to know us, but trust me, we have been known to do some pretty dumb things,” Big Black Jim tells her.
“More than a few times,” says King Salmon.
“Perhaps it’s all these SKYY tonics you drink.” She hands around the new drinks, toasting them with hers. “What are you doing here?”
The jukebox starts playing, “Purple Haze.”
“We’re heading out to our spot in the desert. It’s east of here over the mountains. Off road about sixty miles.” Beez points generally eastward. “Near the edge of the Grand Canyon.”
Big Black Jim says, “Clinton made it a Wilderness Area. We found the spot five or ten years ago and have been returning ever since.”
“Is it a vortex out there?” asks Pinky. With this question, she definitely grows increasingly serious.
“Hell yes. Even better than the ones we sometimes camp at in Sedona,” Normal tells her, a little tongue in cheek, or maybe not.
Pinky doesn’t seem to notice, or care: she is getting more serious and interested every moment. Her forehead wrinkles, and she places both palms down on the bar, looking at them intently. Beez and King Ron have noticed and are watching her back just as intently. King Salmon is hardly paying attention to any of this, scanning the room again. Normal and Big Black Jim are just enthralled with anything she says.
The Rolling Stones are singing “Gimme Shelter.”
“You guys are kind of mysterious. Let’s try this. What is the name of the place where you are going?”
Beez says, “We call it our Holy Ground, and I give you my word it is surely holy to us.”
“We consider it a sacrosanct place,” King Ron tells her.
Pinky stares fixedly at him, her mouth slowly dropping open. “Oh my god, I think you’re the ones.” She seems startled, as if she has suddenly realized who they are and why they are here. For some reason, she also glances down toward the desert rats.
Now all five of them are paying attention to her reactions. Their advancing mellow mood is slightly held up by her sudden seriousness. They look at one another and then back to Pinky. She still seems bewildered.
“The ones what?” asks King Salmon gently. He’s a little concerned at her sudden turn.
Beez wants to recapture the once growing mellow mood and tries to make a joke, although on one level he is not joking at all. “Oh, you can be sure we are the ones; we will go our own way and do not suffer fools lightly. We take no prisoners!” He proclaims this with mock seriousness, raising his glass.
Big Black Jim says, “Perhaps you should join us? We could be Five Dumb Guys and a Girl.”
Normal ignores all this and with a serious tone asks Pinky, “Yeah, like ‘the ones’ what? What do you mean by that?” Normal is a student of Indian legend and lore, and when he gets out in the desert, he is always looking for signs and evidence of the old tales and lore. He’s thinking, or maybe dreaming, There is some old Indian legend at work here. He also glances down the bar where Pinky looked, to see who or what she is checking with. The only thing down there is still the desert rats.
Pinky recovers from her apparent shock.
“Oh, ah … I just meant … ah nothing,” she says.
“Yeah, but what did you mean, we’re the ones?” asks Big Black Jim.
Then she completely regains her composure and tries to ignore the whole thing. “Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s just, well … oh well, I guess maybe you guys must be the ones who have been going out there. Out in the desert, like you said. You see, you’re a little famous with the locals. Some of the ranchers from out there, when they come in for drinks, say they keep running into these scruffy guys in SUVs and pickups once in a while, and they can never figure out what they are doing out there. You know the ranchers who run cattle on BLM land are a little suspicious and sometimes not the brightest.”
“Or the friendliest,” says King Ron.
“Yeah, we have run into a few. We definitely get a ‘what the hell are you guys doing in our desert’ vibe,” Big Black Jim says. He has always wondered what is up with these ranchers out there. The economics of running cattle in the desert seems sketchy at best.
Beez says, “Like who would want to have anything to do with their scrawny cows anyway.”
“Yeah, and what business do they have being the police of the desert? It’s BLM land, and we have as much right to it as them. In fact, I don’t see why they should be allowed to have their stupid cows wandering around out there. All they do is shit all over the place.” King Salmon dislikes government rules that impact him. And the government letting someone use his public land to make a personal profit is even more offensive.
Trying to calm things down, Normal says, “They have never been very friendly but pretty much they mind their business, and we mind ours.”
King Ron finds the whole thing kind of interesting. “So we are famous with those old guys?”
Pinky nods. “Yeah, these ranchers have come in here a bunch of times talking about these strange guys out in the desert.”
“Except we are the Dumb Guys, not the Strange Guys,” Big Black Jim says, laughing.
Pinky has now completely glossed over her “you’re the ones” comment and distracted them by changing the subject. This is not hard to do. After all, they are the Dumb Guys, and they are on their fourth or fifth vodka tonic. But they will only forget about it for now.
“Us, strange guys? Those ranchers are damn scary. Pinky, I think we need another round,” King Salmon says.
“Sure you do,” says Pinky. As she begins mixing the drinks, she glances down the bar once again.
“I think my other customers need another round as well,” she says, handing out the SKYYs.
“It’s on us,” shouts Beez, feeling at least a level three plus magnanimousness.
“Yeah, and for the pool hustlers over there as well,” King Ron adds.
Pinky heads down the bar with a tray full of beers.
The Dumb Guys don’t seem to notice her whispered exchange with the nearest desert rat.
Instead, they turn to one another.
“That was kind of odd,” Normal says.
King Salmon agrees. “Wonder what she is hiding there?”
Beez say, “Aw, don’t be crazy. She wouldn’t hide anything from us. I think I’ll ask her to marry me.”
“Your wife will kill you,” King Ron reminds him.
“I’d say she was definitely acting a little suspicious for a sec,” Big Black Jim says.
When Pinky returns, she says, “Boys, everyone thanks you. You may be Dumb Guys but you sure know how to make friends and influence enemies.”
The jukebox begins playing, “You are the Sunshine of My Life.”
“Pinky, will you marry me?” Beez asks, in apparent earnestness. After enough SKYYs, he always asks attractive barmaids this, and sometimes not so attractive ones as well.
She eyes him warily and says, “And what about that ring there on your finger?”
“Oh, I’ll get one just like it for you!” he replies enthusiastically.
“Well then all right,” she tells them all. “I guess that will make me one of the Dumb Guys.”
“Ah, a Dumb Girl, I would think,” says Big Black Jim.
Everyone’s suspicions are put aside—at least for now.
Chapter 2 - Corner Bar Patrons
Normal notices that the music has stopped. “Hey, we need new tunes!” he says, and heads toward the jukebox.
Beez says, “Be right back,” and follows Normal.
Some catalyst seems to have occurred—perhaps the jukebox stopping, maybe the dogs needing to re-mark their territory, or perhaps Beez hitting on the barmaid, but whatever it was, over the course of a few moments the Five Dumb Guys disperse throughout the bar.
King Salmon and Big Black Jim head for the pool table. Beez and Normal, once the machine is re-fed, both wander down to the end of the bar to meet the old desert rats. King Ron stays at the bar, chatting with Pinky.
Big Black Jim is actually a good pool player, at least when relatively sober, and by far the best pool player among the Dumb Guys. He is also the analytic Dumb Guy. He writes complicated software algorithms as well as designs and debugs hardware and circuit boards. He’s an avid sailor, as much for the challenge of figuring out how to get the most from the wind and his boat as for the joy of being on the open sea. The way he is seeing things tonight, there is something odd going on in this bar, and he’d like to figure out what it is.
He and King Salmon, who is not a very good pool player drunk or sober, arrive at the pool table bearing three Dos Equis for the Mexicans.
“Tres cervezas para mis amigos. Dos Equis,” says King Salmon, offering the beers.
The Mexican pool players greet them graciously and accept the beers with thanks and smiles.
“Muchas gracias.
“Gracias.”
King Salmon is the dreamer among the Five Dumb Guys. At any moment, he may be thinking about the possibility of faster than light travel or how to achieve world peace. He consumes random information off the Internet at a voracious pace. This weirdness in the bar has him fascinated, and he is hoping these Mexican guys can shed some light on things. After all, these three in Mesquite is plenty strange all by itself.
Introductions are made. Turns out the Mexicans are officially known as the Vatos. They are Pablo, Héctor, and Alejandro. They are a little wary, not withstanding meeting King Ron earlier. What Mexican native would not be wary in a Nevada desert dive bar, right next door to Utah?
When King Salmon explains that he and his friends are the Five Dumb Guys, there is every indication that this may be the beginning of a lasting friendship; it’s reminiscent of a pack of eight-year-olds meeting on the playground and hitting it off, perhaps just before they start a game of kickball, or decide to go build a fort.
Teams are chosen for 9-ball: King Salmon and Pablo against Big Black Jim and Héctor. Alejandro heads to the jukebox, muttering, “Caramba, let me see if we can get some real music instead of this old hippie shit. I want to hear some Norteño.”
“So,” Big Black Jim says to Héctor, “what are a bunch of Mexican banditos doing in a place like the Corner Bar, let alone Mesquite? There is not much here.” Big Black Jim is a Southern California native, and sympathetic to Mexican culture. Desert rats, Pinky, the Vatos, and the Five Dumb Guys, all in the same place; no coincidence he figures.
If these were El Monte or Pico Rivera OG type Chicanos, a greeting like that might get you killed. But these three are real Mexicans from down south, not from the hood, and they take no offense.
The Vatos laugh, and Pablo ask right back, “We might ask the same of five pasty-looking, none-too-skinny, or young anymore for that matter, middle-class white boys.”
There is more laughter. “Fair enough,” says Big Black Jim, “but who you calling a white boy?”
They are going to get along famously.
The banter continues as the pool game ramps up and Alejandro rejoins them. Pleased, he says, “My friends Normal and Beez and I have decided to alternate some real Mexican music with their hippie tunes.”
“Hasta el Limite” begins playing on the jukebox.
“So where are you guys from?” asks King Salmon.
Like many first-generation middle-class Mexicans, the Vatos are proud of their heritage and accomplishments. And rightly so. Turns out the three of them grew up together near the small village of El Lobo, in Landa de Matamoros in the central mountains of Mexico. The Sierra Gorda. The Wolf and the Gorda Mountains. Both familiar icons to the Five Dumb Guys. Coincidence? Maybe.
Pablo and Héctor are brothers, and Alejandro is their lifelong friend, likely a cousin, although no one is 100% sure. Although they still call the village home, they have all moved up in the world: Pablo has a master’s degree in Education, Alejandro is an engineer, and Héctor is helping his father turn their once small trucking business into an international concern, moving freight through most of North and South America. Theirs has been the generation to move from the lower economic rungs to the middle class, in many ways not unlike the Dumb Guy’s parents.
“And what about you guys?” asks Pablo. “We’d like to know what the hell you are all doing out here in the desert, too, and where you came here from.”
“Reasonable questions,” replies Big Black Jim. And he and King Salmon explain about the Five Dumb Guys, their years of friendship and camping trips in the desert. This story gets some raised eyebrows from the Vatos, which the Dumb Guys notice, but it’s nothing as marked as Pinky’s, “Oh my god you’re the ones.” For some reason their story, unremarkable as it is in their eyes, seems to pique more than a passing interest with the patrons of this bar.
Eventually Pablo says, “My friends, this is all becoming quite strange. I must tell you of how we came to be here. It is an odd little drama, and you might not believe it, but I swear it is all the truth.”
“Yes, it is even a little embarrassing,” says Alejandro with a chuckle. “Our mothers told us to come here.”
Everyone laughs rowdily.
“This is going to be good,” says Big Black Jim. “But more beers first.” He heads to the bar.
King Salmon says, “Ha! Now that I believe. If there is anyone who can make a bunch of macho banditos like you guys do anything, it would have to be your mothers. So why did they make you come here?” King Salmon is taking a real liking to these guys. They are down to earth and straightforward—not full of pretense. These are characteristics he appreciates in people.
The Vatos are not really embarrassed. They have been sent here by women they hold in the highest regard. Not just their mothers, but wives and grandmothers as well. For them respect for the elderly remains, and they have not abandoned the old values, even with their modern education.
Big Black Jim returns and hands around beers and SKYYs.
“You see,” says Pablo sheepishly, “it started with our grandmother Lupe.”
They explain that Lupe is actually Alejandro’s wife’s grandmother. It seems this Lupe is a serious village shaman, and is known to have hexed a number of people, including some who may have subsequently died. Everybody believes this in the mountains. The villagers all around live in great respect and fear of Lupe. She lives in a little mountain village near El Lobo, and she is celebrated across much of Mexico. A few months ago, she started going into some kind of trance. Ever since, she has been ranting and raving about “the return,” “the end,” “Guadalupe,” “The Inti,” and “The Sun”—or maybe it’s “The Son.” Who knows for sure?
“What’s that all about?” asks King Salmon, highly interested; religion, the end of the world, Incas, old witches, and all at once, what could be better than that? “Is she talking about Gods or the end of the world or what?”
“And why does it bring you here?” Big Black Jim wants to know. He’s thinking, This is puzzling, and maybe it is just the beer rambling, or maybe not. These guys don’t seem too drunk. As a Dumb Guy, he has plenty of experience on which to base that judgment.
Héctor tells them that people do indeed think this is about the end of the world or something. Inti is the Inca sun God, and the Son of course everyone takes to mean the return of Christ Jesus. Guadalupe is the mother of God. People around there have lots of superstitious beliefs, mixing the old ways with the more modern. So this stuff is making everyone very excited and frightened.
The Vatos’ village is steeped in ancient and strong mystical and religious beliefs. As much as the Vatos have adopted modern ways, they are still deeply influenced by these beliefs.
On the jukebox, the Mothers of Invention are playing, “It Can’t Happen Here.”
Alejandro says, “I think the old woman is crazy, but the whole village is nervous, and all our wives and the mothers are very upset. So they got together and decided we must come up here and find out what is going on, and stop the disaster.”
“Why here,” asks Big Black Jim, still waiting to hear how this all ties to the desert and Mesquite.
“No shit,” King Salmon says. “I don’t think there are any Incan Gods around here, or Jesus. Although I’m not sure I want to run into either. But I guess that might be better than a whole pack of upset wives and mothers-in-law.”
They all laugh, and Pablo says, “You are right about that, my friend.”
Alejandro explains. “This part is maybe the most astounding. Besides all this God stuff, she keeps yelling out a bunch of numbers, the same numbers over and over: 6 31 88 20 103 40 56 59. This is a very mystifying thing for Lupe to do. No one can figure it out. You know, Inca Gods and Our Lady, everyone can comprehend her going on about that kind of thing. But this woman is an old country peasant, and has no education at all, so what are the numbers all about?”
“Then you see, I had this shipment to send up here to Colorado City,” says Héctor.
He explains how he was looking at some online map software trying to figure out how to get it up here and noticed that the GPS coordinates around here looked a whole lot like these numbers Lupe was shouting. He plugged in the numbers and sure enough, they seemed to be for somewhere out in the desert east of Mesquite: the old woman was ranting and raving and rambling on with strings of numbers which were GPS coordinates!
“Maybe it is where you guys are going? Would not that be very strange?” Pablo says. His tone is serious, and he has stopped all signs of joking.
King Salmon, amazed, says, “Far out. That is kind of cool. Where exactly? Have you gone to the exact spot to see what is there?” He is finding this fascinating. Being a pragmatist, he doesn’t believe in witches and the supernatural, but he doesn’t necessarily disbelieve either. His vast curiosity means he does not dismiss things easily. He figures there is something here, and they should try to understand it.
Big Black Jim is dubious, and says, “Incredible. So you guys have come here looking for this Inti God or Guadalupe or something in the Corner Bar?” He wants to know exactly where the GPS coordinates point, if that’s what they are.
“No, no, not the Corner Bar,” explains Héctor. “Like we said, if these are coordinates they would be for somewhere out east of here, out in the desert.”
“Well, have you gone out there to look?” Big Black Jim asks.
They explain that they have no desire to take Pablo’s BMW X5 out in the desert. They would rather play golf right down the road at the new Casa Blanca course, so for now they are largely content to hang around Mesquite.
“Things are quiet here, away from the clamoring of the wives and mothers-in-law back home,” says Pablo.
“Heck, this is the strangest thing I have ever heard: Mexican Vato Banditos driving their BMW to the golf course in Mesquite, where some shaman witch woman has sent them looking for Aztec Gods in the desert,” says Big Black Jim, smiling.
“I know what you mean,” Alejandro says. “We figure if something is going to happen, we’ll find out about it from here just as easily as going way out in that desert. Plus, we are working on a few deals here, if you know what I mean, so we are just going to hang around Mesquite for a while.”
The Vatos aren’t disinterested, they’re just patient. The deals and golf in Mesquite are keeping them occupied right now. They figure if they have to, eventually they can rent a jeep or something and go out traipsing around in the desert. These Dumb Guys showing up, and perhaps heading where they need, is most fortuitous.
King Salmon wants to figure this out. “Dude, there is nothing east of here but desert. And then the Grand Canyon if you go far enough. Look, hold on a minute, we need another round.” He heads for the bar.
“I’m going out to my truck to get my GPS,” Big Black Jim says. “I think I’ve had way too much SKYY to be certain, but these numbers look awfully familiar. Let’s see where they really point.”
The Vatos give one another looks and smile.
“What do you think, Pablo?” asks Héctor. “They certainly do seem to be related to everything in some strange way.”
“Related surely. I believe they must be the ones Lupe is talking about.” To Pablo, the Five Dumb Guys are surely part of this whole mystery.
Alejandro has little doubt either, but he wants to see some more evidence. “Let’s see what their GPS says.”
“Yes, and should we tell them the last part?” Héctor asks rhetorically.
King Salmon and Big Black Jim return together.
King Salmon hands around three beers, two SKYYs, and five shots of Tequila. They have by now abandoned the pool game.
The jukebox is playing, “Detalles” by Los Tigres Del Norte.
“Salude.” Alejandro raises a toast to the group. They toss down the shots.
Pablo pulls out a wrinkled, tattered slip of paper on which Lupe’s numbers are written, as Big Black Jim turns on his Garmin 76Cx. When it has found enough satellites, they key in Lupe’s numbers. The map comes up, and lo and behold, the location is damn near dead on the waypoint Big Black Jim had saved the last time they had been out to their secret spot.
“Shit, it is right at our spot!” King Salmon says.
“I don’t believe this. Where’d you get these coordinates?” Big Black Jim is incredulous.
The Vatos are quiet. Any lingering skepticism they may have had is gone.
Alejandro says, “There is one more thing we need to tell you. Lupe keeps saying another thing over and over; she says, ‘Look for five.’ We thought we were supposed to be looking for another number of some kind. Then the minute you guys walked in, I had a sinking feeling you might be the ‘five.’”
“Yes,” says Pablo. “I am beginning to worry that our golf playing days may be numbered. Now I have no doubt this is all for real.”
“You must see, you have the same GPS location, there are five of you, it is all too much,” says Héctor. He’s looking a little shocked.
“Well,” says Big Black Jim, who is amused and not really convinced of anything but too many odd coincidences, “I tell you what. We are headed out into the wilds tomorrow, apparently to right where your Lupe is pointing. If anything is going on out there, when we come back through here in a week or so, we can stop and tell you about it.”
King Salmon says, “Of course if we run into Jesus, we may head off to Heaven instead.” This lightens things a little, and they all laugh. With the prospect of finding out what is really at the coordinates, the Vatos are much relieved.
“Right, how about we finish this pool game?” says Héctor.
“Yes, but you must promise to stop by here when you come back. We must know what is out at your ‘secret spot.’ Then we can tell Lupe and our wives and maybe people can stop acting so crazy.” Pablo hopes they will find nothing and things can return to normal.
An old witch ranting. Numbers with special meanings. It’s enough to ruin a good buzz and an enjoyable evening in a dive bar. They all agree that shouldn’t happen, and with the Dumb Guys’ promise to let the Vatos know if they see anything in the desert, the pool game resumes.
“The Pusher Man” begins playing on the jukebox.
Normal and Beez have re-fed the jukebox, including a generous selection of Norteño tunes. With two SKYYs and a handful of Budweisers, they arrive at the far end of the bar. Normal figures buying the desert rats a few beers might get some tips out of them for cool places to visit out among the mesas and washes. The locals know the best spots around for camping, fishing, and scenery, but sometimes it takes a little urging to get them to reveal anything.
Normal got his name for being the closest, at least in appearance, to just that—normal. For forty years, he has been a faithful family man and with his wife raised two all-American boys. The family are devoted, avowed Catholics, and there are 2.5 cars at the house in the suburbs. Few know of Normal’s avid study of the west and Indian culture. The Dumb Guys are convinced he is a reincarnated Hopi chief. The fact that his two boys grew up and married women with royal blood—one a Hawaiian princess and the other connected to the English royal family—is yet another hint of Normal’s regal and extra-normal nature.
Normal greets the locals with, “Waz up, guys?”
Beez says, “Howdy gents.”
The nearest one is wearing a black cowboy hat with one of those bands with big silver emblems going around it. The other two are wearing scruffy beards and torn, dusty clothing.
The desert rats all mumble hello.
“Nice hat,” says Beez.
“Thanks, I like it. Thanks for the beers.”
“Pinky done messing with you guys?” one of the old guys asks.
“Probably not,” says Normal, “but we love her anyway.”
“She is a gem. Tough but fair. She’s the boss of this bar.”
Before they can ask about local desert sights and scenes, the one in the hat says, “So where you guys headed?”
Normal briefly explains about the Dumb Guys and their trips out to their special spot east of here.
“Yeah, Pinky told us about that. You’re the guys the ranchers keep complaining about.” This guy in the hat doesn’t really seem like your typical desert dive bar drunk. He looks more like some kind of urban cowboy. He’s got the jeans and hat and cowboy boot thing going on, and the classic Budweiser in his hand. Clean-shaven and middle-aged. But in some way, he is still a little rough around the edges.
“The name’s Normal, and this is Beez.”
“Alaska John,” replies the cowboy, shaking with both of them. He’s cordial, but also a little superior and aloof.
“What are you guys going to do out there in the desert? There isn’t anything out there.” Alaska John says this perfunctorily, like he already knows the answer, or even if he doesn’t it’s irrelevant.
“True enough. We all do our own thing; hike, explore, paint, take some photos, relax, read, do nothing. It is a time to reconnect with the real world,” Beez tells him.
Beez is the philosophical Dumb Guy. He believes everything is related by well-defined cause and effect, and scientific method and logic are the only way for people to discern truth and solve problems, whether the most metaphysical of dilemmas or just day-to-day decisions. He’s read stuff from Aristotle to Kant, and figures they were all smart, but didn’t quite get it. Many take him for a pseudo intellectual, and he doesn’t mind. He often starts the planning for the Five Dumb Guys’ trips, which is how he got the name Beez—for being an instigator.
“Sounds boring,” says Alaska John. “Real world my ass. Maybe it’s time for you guys to step it up and get busy doing something useful.”
The jukebox begins playing, “Hey Mr. Space Man.”
Normal and Beez aren’t sure if the guy is belligerent, joking, or what.
“Step it up? Well jeez, you old geezer, we all have jobs, how about you? What do you contribute to the world?” Normal says this with a smile and friendly demeanor: he’s not trying to cause trouble but not likely to take any shit from some drunk cowboy. He’s proud of his accomplishments—all their accomplishments.
“Hey, these other two are the old geezers,” Alaska says, laughing and indicating the two other desert rats sitting next to him. They are certainly both lots older than he is. “I’m Alaska John.”
The other desert rats don’t seem offended. They use the occasion to lobby for another free beer.
“You can say that again.”
“Count me in. We could sure use another beer.”
“So what is the world-shaking contribution you guys make sitting here in the Corner Bar?” Beez asks. He is on the verge of dismissing these three as lost cause drunks. If they can’t make coherent sense, he’s losing interest in the conversation. Maybe I’ll head back over to that awesome barmaid Pinky, he’s thinking. He glances back up the bar to see King Ron and her engrossed in conversation, which definitely raises his concern.
“Look,” says Alaska John, “this world is disintegrating about your ears. Something has to be done or it will come totally unglued. You guys can’t be sitting around out in the desert doing nothing and drinking all day and night. You have to be involved and help do something about it.”
They are a little perturbed by this bar fly cowboy and his speeches. Now he’s sounding like some new age environmentalist instead of a drunk desert rat sitting in a dive bar. Where on earth does he come up with “world disintegrating,” and why would he even notice or care? And what’s he doing preaching to them anyway?
Beez says, “Dude, I’m getting a feeling you are not exactly who you seem sitting here in the Corner Bar. Desert rats don’t worry about the ecology. What’s up with that?”
Normal is more defensive. “Hey, we do plenty. We work and raise families. I’ve even got three grandkids, with another on the way. We do what we can. What do you do, besides sit here drinking Buds?”
Alaska John doesn’t back off. “Look, this planet is going down the tubes, and you know it. Overpopulation, pollution, famine, starvation, wars, crime, drugs; you are either part of the problem or part of the solution. And those that are part of the problem are going to get taken out, I can assure you. Taking you all out might be the real solution.”
The Dumb Guys don’t know how to react. Walking away crosses Beez’s mind again. It doesn’t seem like the time or place, let alone the audience, for a threatening Earth-first type of rant. But Pinky’s still talking to King Ron.
Normal just chills, to see where this goes. Maybe the guy’s one of those religious nuts: some “End Times” thing.
That is exactly where the next comment heads.
“Let me tell you this. I may not appear like much, but you should think of me as your Alpha and Omega. Since you are a Catholic, try to imagine the Four Horsemen and your Armageddon sitting right here before you. We are here to do his bidding, and he has bidden, let’s get this fixed!” Alaska laughs heartily at his comment.
The other two drunks next to him seem to be getting nervous, and they’re now trying to ignore all this. Or maybe they’re just wondering whether they’re gonna get another free beer.
“Hey, don’t get him worked up,” one of them says.
Normal and Beez laugh, but this is getting a little intense. No doubt about it, some nut case religious eco guy out here in the desert: and a Budweiser drinking one at that. If they weren’t close to level three of four, about five SKYYs into the night, they’d have already extricated themselves from this conversation.
Trying to be conciliatory, Normal says, “That is pretty cool. I think you and your friends here should have another beer. Heck, since you are one of the four horsemen, the beers are definitely on me.” He signals to Pinky for another round for this end of the bar.
“Thanks,” says Alaska John, “and it is most definitely time stuff started happening, you know what I mean?”
“Sure, we’re with you,” says Beez.
“No, we have no idea what you are talking about,” says Normal, giving Beez a look, but still smiling. This Alaska John doesn’t seem drunk; he’s not slurring his words or anything, but just keeps saying strange things. And Normal wonders how he knew he was Catholic.
“So hey,” says Normal, hoping to change the subject and get back to the reason he came to talk to these guys in the first place, “have you guys found anything interesting out east of here? Like near the cliffs up by Last Chance Canyon?”
“Like what? There isn’t anything out there.”
“You know, like interesting canyons or petroglyphs or such.”
“Why don’t you go over to Zion or the Bryce or something?”
“Too many people.”
Pinky arrives with three Budweisers and two SKYYs.
“Pinky,” Beez asks, while smiling at Alaska John, “what is with this Alaska John character here? Is he crazy or just plain weird?” Maybe she will let them in on the joke.
Pinky looks from Alaska John back to Beez and in all seriousness says, “I have to tell you he is not all he seems. Or rather, he is a whole bunch more than he seems. Aren’t you, Alaska? You do carry on with some pretty outlandish shit. You Dumb Guys should definitely watch out for him.”
“Who, me?” Alaska shrugs, but his expression is anything but innocent. He is suddenly deadly serious, looking them straight in the eye.
“Yeah, you,” Pinky says, just as serious. “If I didn’t actually like you when you’re sober, I’d throw your ass out of my bar again.” She leaves the drinks and heads back up the bar toward King Ron.
Normal is not sure what to make of all this. In a light tone, he asks the other desert rats, “So what’s with your buddy here? The Alpha and the Omega, what’s up with that? That there is some heavy stuff.”
“He’s drunk, don’t listen to him. And thanks for the beers,” one replies.
The other says, “He’s the devil. He steals all the women and leaves us with nothing to do but sit here and drink in the bar.”
They laugh. This sounds a little more typical of drunks in dive bars.
Alaska says, with distain, “I am telling you, you and your buddies are going to be the ones to help me clean this place up.”
“And what is your suggestion for how we go about that, Mr. Alaska John?” Beez asks.
Alaska pauses briefly, as if giving this some thought, and says, “Tell you what. When the time comes, we’ll just see if you guys step it up.”
The jukebox is playing, “Contrabanda y Traición.”
“And I’ll tell you what,” says Normal, finally getting annoyed. “Right now I’m going to step down. Down to the other end of the bar to chat with Pinky and my friends.”
“I’m with him,” says Beez. “Later.”
Enough is enough, they figure. SKYYs are raised in toast to the desert rats, and they head away from this weird Alaska John.
Both are wondering what that was about. Should they just discount the whole conversation as a bunch of drunks or be a little concerned? So they discount it.
Chapter 3 - Pinky
While the pool tournament and dialogue with the desert rats is going on, Pinky and King Ron are becoming well acquainted. Blame the SKYY, but portions of life stories are being exchanged. They are now engrossed, all smiles and leaning across the bar toward each other.
The jukebox is playing, “Under My Thumb.”
“Nice tunes,” Pinky observes. “The eclectic international selection is thanks to Alejandro, I presume?”
“You are a very astute young lady,” King Ron says.
“Are you Dumb Guys always this generous and sharing?” She says this suddenly, turning serious.
“Oh, we are generous and kind and compassionate as well. Maybe not always so much with the jukebox, but surely in many other ways.”
“That’s wonderful. Maybe you guys can someday save the world with your benevolence,” she says looking intently at them.
King Ron is taken by surprise. Here he was having a lovely flirtatious chat, and she turns so deliberate sounding. Like she’s on a mission or something. He’s as concerned about the planet as the next guy, but not right this moment. Where did this come from?
“What?” he says, wondering if she’s joking or something.
She laughs. “Well, if you are so kind and compassionate too bad you are all so dumb. But you don’t really seem so dumb.” She has just as suddenly shifted back to a lighter tone.
Pinky is surprised at herself. She has taken a liking to this guy, with his worn hunting vest, beard, and Grateful Dead t-shirt. He’s totally laid back yet focused on everything she says. She definitely likes a man who gives her his full attention. And down to earth is good, too. But she has had plenty of disappointing encounters in bars, including this one, so she’ll remain cautious. Her latest relationship just broke up, with that damn cowboy down the bar no less, so she is lonely again. She is also pretty stressed out.
She’s not a loose woman; she is a free thinker, deep into the world of the Earth and Earth Mother worship. And while these are very old traditions, primal, from the ancient times, she is also totally modern and connected, using the Internet to share thoughts, ideas, and much of what is going on in her life. Recently the network has been all a–swirl with intimations about something really big, maybe even catastrophic. And there are stranger signs that suggest she and her Corner Bar and some of its patrons will be involved in this thing. There are crazy numbers all over. Five is a really important one—not only as the age-old pentacle. And now, right here in front of her, are Five Dumb Guys. She wonders what is going on.
“Oh, I can assure you we are the Five Dumb Guys. But if you want the world saved, no problem. Just tell me where and when.”
“I think I might just have to keep you around,” Pinky says, serious once again.
Pinky has become enamored. This is not an uncommon occurrence and happens from time to time to various Dumb Guys.
Normal and Beez return to find that King Ron and Pinky are apparently now the best of friends. King Ron almost always befriends people on Five Dumb Guys trips (perhaps in not quite the same way things are going with Pinky though). He is not just down to earth but also a real hippie throwback. You might argue that he never got past the ’60s, but you would be very wrong. The truth is he kept all the good parts of those days: the ideals, the peace, the human compassion and love, and then got on with life. Ill will and meanness are not part of King Ron’s nature. Yet he is famous for being able to hold a grudge if he feels someone has wronged him—but even those he gets over eventually, although in some cases it might take years. The Dumb Guys send him whenever they want to meet someone in a bar or campground.
“Ah, more Dumb Guys. I just told my mountain man friend King Ron here that I don’t think you guys are so dumb.”
“We aren’t called the Five Dumb Guys for nothing. I can assure you we do plenty of dumb stuff,” Beez tells her.
“Coming and visiting me in my bar was not one of them. This was meant to be. Let’s have another round.” Pinky begins setting up SKYY tonics and six tumblers of Tequila.
Goddess status for sure now. A nice figure and flirting can get a barmaid pretty damn close to Goddess level. Making drinks without even being asked, plus shots, plus a round for herself puts Pinky instantly over the top, potentially even into Dumb Guy legend status. While she makes the drinks, they recall the original Goddess, a barmaid from long ago in So Cal, of truly exceptional character and proportions.
As Pinky is placing the drinks on the bar, Big Black Jim and King Salmon finish another nine-ball game. Bidding the Vatos farewell, “Despedida por ahora,” with a promise to stop by with news of anything they find out in the desert, they join the other Dumb Guys and Pinky. It is close to 2:00 am by now, but they are not quite done with the evening or the Corner Bar.