Dry Winter

By Jose R. Rodriguez

In this short story a family man ends up in the Colorado high plains to take care of business after the dead of his alcoholic father who he has not seen in almost twenty years. The father he knew and had the displeasure of growing up with is not the man buried in the wind swept cemetery. Something has happened in the years since and a journey of discovery starts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jose R. Rodriguez
• Release date: Aug 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466076853

Jose R. Rodriguez

BiographyI was Born in Caracas, Venezuela to Spanish parents. I came to the U.S. in 1980 to study; my parents were glad to buy me a one-way ticket and helped me pack my bags. B.S in Aeronautical Engineering and M.S in Aerospace Engineering. Since then I have worked as an engineer and a computer programmer in the structural timber industry. I'm a registered Professional Engineer in the state of Colorado.I used to skydive until I busted a knee in my 985th jump. I took up bicycling and now I'm an avid mountain biker having busted a few body parts and cracked a few helmets on rocky, steep Colorado trails. I enjoy cross country riding at night and down hilling at ski resorts during the summer days. I race BMX. I used to fly small airplanes but let private license expire because it got expensive.Publishing CreditsPublished work: “The Tomato King,” Summer 1994, Saint Joseph’s Magazine, Jersey City, NJ. “Guacaipuro’s Gold,” Vol. 7, No. 2, Chiricu, Indiana State University, Bloomington, In. “Moonstruck,” Spring 1995, Saint Joseph’s Magazine, Jersey. “Old Tales,” No. 18, 1995, Latino Stuff Review, Miami, Fl. “Tramps,” New Texas 95, University of North Texas, Denton, Tx. Winner of the 1995 Betty Greene Fiction Award. “El Norteno,” August 1996, Hispanic Magazine OnLine, America On Line. “Pedro Orozco,” October 1996, Hispanic Magazine OnLine, America On Line, winner of their first literary contest. Has written six unpublished novels in the past few years . Winner of the 2010 Dirt Rag magazine literary contest with "King of the hill" short story (see October issue).

Book preview

Dry Winter

By José Rodríguez

Smashwords Edition

Copyright José Rodríguez, 2011

A cold wind slapped me the moment I got out of my SUV. It blew through the high plains to the west of the Tarryall mountains where a mist of blowing snow veiled hard granite lines encased in winter ice. I didn't belong here, standing on the pot-holed parking lot of the only general store in Anaconda, Colorado, defying logic and my best judgment.

Tumble weeds crossed the road and rolled underneath a row of rusted and worn out 4x4’s. I took this disappearing motion to be my cue to join the general store’s patrons inside the painted-many-times-over-yet-still-rotting building. I opened the door and the bell above my head clang and all eyes in the store met me at the threshold. Two steps further on the wooden floor and they had gone back to their original business, lurking among warped wooden racks.

Good evening I said to the man with a yellow mop of hair that wrapped around his head and chin down to his neck and over his shirt. I’m looking for the police station.

Go down the main road until you see a green barn on your right. There is a flat fender Jeep parked next to it. Take a right and go up the hill until you see a stop sign. Joe’s office is to your left.

Thanks.

You’re welcome.

I went back to my SUV feeling better, having been able to talk to this country folk without being – I wouldn’t say ridiculed – but talked down like a tenderfoot just stepping off the stage coach into a John Wayne movie. On the other hand, the people of Anaconda didn’t know who I was or the reason for me being in this desolated high plain. Things would change when word got around like those tumble weeds running with the wind.

What is a flat fender anyway? I drove down the main road until I saw a dilapidated barn that had been painted green perhaps generations ago. Next to it there was a rusted GI Jeep, one of those with a square hood. That must be a flat fender, I said to myself. Its faded For Sale sign flapped against the cracked windshield, beaten by the persistent wind. Up the road I went, to the stop sign. A brownstone building stood to my left with an Anaconda Police sign above a heavy timber door and a police Cherokee parked in front of it. There was neither handicap space nor reserved space signs. Free for all parking.

I parked next to the Cherokee but I didn’t shut my engine off. I could have run back to my suburban life in Denver that fit me like an old pair of pajamas, but I stayed put, ready to stick my finger into the wounds of an old corpse to get – you guess right – a handful of maggots. My fingers in one hand tapped on the steering wheel and my other hand ran through my hair. I could put this thing into reverse, I thought, and tail out of town, back to civilization and comfortable denial. I shut the engine off instead.

The heavy door wouldn’t budge when I pushed on it. It rattled with the sound of ancient hinges.

Come through the back a loud voice from the inside said. I went around the building, passed a small dumpster and found a gray metal door. I knocked this time. Come in the same voice said. I stepped into a cramped office, storage room and waiting room. A shotgun sat on a faded couch set against a stone wall. Despite the junk everywhere, the desk in front of the man with the loud voice was as bare as the grasslands outside.

How can I help you? said the man in his Andy Taylor uniform. A small placard on his desk bore the inscription Chief of Police. Was this Deputy Fife? I was going to ask but I didn’t have the presence of mind to joke with the armed stranger. Anyway, this Fife thing came to me after the occasion had passed. My smart mouth works in a time delay fuse, so delayed that there is no point on using it. I have found this slowness in my wit to be more of an advantage than a handicap.

I’m Jack Norton, I said. The Chief of Police’s eyes didn’t speak. I’m Sam – Samuel – Norton’s son. His eyes still didn’t say anything. He stood and offered his hand across his desk.

Joe Styron.

Nice to meet you. His handshake was firm and brief. Some people have the knack, or at least they believe so, of reading’s a man’s character by his handshake. Joe Styron’s handshake, like anyone else’s I have ever experienced, held no key to his personality. The coarseness of his palm hinted of a man used to manual labor, but what kind of labor, I had no clue. Joe Styron’s eyes gave no clue either, but again, for me looking into stranger’s eyes is like looking into a dark lake. I cannot ascertain what’s below the surface or how deep or shallow the waters are.

Sorry about your father, and sorry that I or the Coroner couldn’t find you before we buried him.

Thank you; but there is no reason to be sorry. My double speak was unintentional, but my answer left doubts about not being reason to be sorry because my dad was dead or because Joe styron couldn’t tell me on time about the old man’s burial. If I had been pressed at the time to clarify my answer, I would have said that there was no reason to be sorry on account of either proposition.

Joe pointed to the chair to the side of his desk as he sat back on his old wooden one that creaked under his wire frame as if he weighted a ton.

"Going through your father’s