Sylvia & Carl

By Mike Liston

The town's plant closes, people lose their jobs, homes are foreclosed and Sylvia and Carll, just average folks, hit the road. Join them on their humorous-at times scary- journey through our modern America as they evade, outrun, outwin and in the end accidentally defeat our country's fabulously wealthy, all powerful, modern day elite.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Liston
• Release date: Jan 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370711024

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Sylvia & Carl

By

Mike Liston

Beijing and Anchorage, Alaska

All Rights Reserved

December 12, 1996 (lightly revised August 25,

2009, July 23, 2010, March 16, 2012)

US Copyright office

Registered to Guy M. Liston (Mike Liston)

Case #1-282170463

Case Date: 11/27/2009

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ONE

Sylvia wasn’t ugly. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t smart. She wasn’t stupid. Sylvia was average. Like most of us.

Sylvia just graduated from high school. Some kids were above average, some below, but most were average just like her. She lived in a town neither small nor large. Just a town sort of maybe in-between right about in the middle of America. It wasn’t a bad place to live. It wasn’t good. Everybody made a fairly average living not so different from everyone else in the USA.

Sylvia was engaged to a young man named Carl. She’d gone steady with Carl all through their junior high and senior years. He was an average guy although sometimes Syliva thought he was more romantically interested in his car. She did love him. It wasn’t like fireworks or a romance novel, but he was nice to her and at least pretended to listen when she talked. Could a person expect more than that when everything else they did and said and thought was just about as average as anything?

Only one thing bothered Sylvia, really—the size of her breasts. To her, they seemed a little less than average. It must have seemed that way to Carl too because every time the two of them passed a girl on the street with, you know, really big ones, he’d always turn and stare. Still, he was pretty good in most ways except he always wore a baseball cap and had grease under his fingernails. She just wished Carl would stop, you know, staring at those girls with really big ones, which was why the only thing she really prayed to God for was a bigger bra size. The truth was Sylvia’s breasts were just about as average as the rest of her. Carl just had an average American male fixation on bigger than average mammary glands. Still, it hurt her feelings.

Oh well, she would sigh while dressing for a date as she stuffed her brassiere with tissue paper, you can’t have everything,-which was a fairly average way to make the best of a less than average situation.

Their wedding was set for June. Like every wedding, it seemed. In fact, it was so hard to get the Elk’s Club, or a church, or even a church basement that most of the brides and grooms decided on a mass ceremony in the Lincoln High School gym. They would marry, go to work at the plant, have kids, buy modest homes, smoke, eat, possibly drink too much; develop heart disease. Just like their parents. It was a fairly average way to live.

Except the plant closed. They shut it down. It was the heart of the town’s economic body so to speak plus an arm or two and a leg. Sylvia heard it from her best friend Lila who heard it from her mom who heard it from her husband who was the second shift foreman in packaging. The plant made little doohickey components of the average American six cylinder car engine. They were moving the plant to some place far away where people would work all day for the price of a sack of fries.

Why? the whole town had asked each other in ragged chorus.

Because you all cost too much, and you’re too damned lazy, the town’s only newspaper editorialized that night.

I don’t get it, honey, Carl said puzzled from under his car. Just last year after we voted the Union out and took a pay cut, they said we workers were the best there were. And golly, it’s not like they were going broke. Didn’t they make seven hundred and eighty million dollars last year before paying a $1.56 in tax?

It doesn’t seem right, does it? Sylvia agreed wondering how a person could have a marriage if the husband didn’t work and only played with his car all day.

Gee, said Carl after a longer than average silence, I guess maybe I’ll have to join the Marines.

But Carl, protested his soon-to-be wife, there isn’t even a war this week.

Well, they went ahead and had their mass wedding in the gym. It was practically the entire graduating class of Abe Lincoln High and all in all a glum affair.

I do, Sylvia said in unison with a hundred other young women as she tried to look better than average ecstatic in spite of the scratchy tissue she’d stuffed in her brassiere. After the ceremony it was quiet. Kind of hard to feel happy these days especially after the captain of the high school football team had gone and killed himself and his girlfriend, in a drunken fiery car wreck. He’d been depressed because the car dealership he’d stood to inherit from his dad had gone bankrupt a week after the plant closed. In fact, there’d been an abrupt, sharp increase in the number of motor vehicle accidents, fights, wife beatings, and public drunkenness, but that was nothing compared with the forest of For Sale signs dotting almost every lawn. Carl kissed her. He wasn’t depressed. He’d had this strange gleam in his eye the minute he saw her temporary cleavage created with just a touch of makeup plus push-up bra. She smiled squeezing her man’s hand. Everything would be fine.

It wasn’t. There was no work. Only the bank stayed busy foreclosing on homes, farms, businesses and assorted items of personal property until it too was foreclosed on by some big city bank somewhere. By August almost the entire graduating class of Lincoln High had left. The only place busier than the bank had been the armed forces recruiting offices even without a war that week. Oh well, a body could only hope.

Older graduating classes of Lincoln High didn’t have that option. They had mortgages, car payments, furniture, dentist bills and little savings. An entire family would disappear silently in the night and every morning another vacant home would join its neighbors. Whole blocks stood quiet and deserted of children, dogs, and lawn movers, faded ‘For Sale’ signs fluttering in the breeze like the ghostly pennants of defeated football teams.

Carl got depressed. He’d been fine until they’d rejected him for the Army, the Air Force, the Marines; even the Coast Guard. Told him there wasn’t a war this week, or the next. He took to sitting in his room cleaning his hunting rifle and staring at the floor. Sylvia was worried. She got so desperate she even drug him down to the new Reverend Jimmy franchise off by the side of the rusty old railroad tracks. But it didn’t last, the Reverend Jimmy Jr. preacher disappeared one night with the building fund. Heck, even the Safeway closed its doors.

Enough was enough.

Come on, Carl, Sylvia said pulling the rifle from her husband’s limp hands.

Huh? he responded listlessly as she hauled him to his feet. She bumped her head. This room was kind of small for the two of them which is why she still lived with her parents. Heck, they hadn’t even consummated their marriage yet, they’d been too broke to afford a motel room for one evening let alone a honeymoon. She looked at Carl feeling queasy in the stomach. He wasn’t doing nothing, just staring at speck of dust as it trickled down the wall. Maybe she should have the marriage annulled. But oh no, she’d gotten hitched for better or worse and things couldn’t get much worse, could they? She packed Carl’s suitcase quickly hoping no one would answer.

What are you doing, honey? Carl asked feebly as she pressed the car keys to his palm.

We’re getting out, she said firmly taking one last look up and down the rows of empty staring houses lining both sides of the street.

But, he protested as she shoved him into the car, the car hasn’t exactly been running too good, and I know I’m out of gas.

Don’t you worry, Carl, she assured him tossing his suitcase into the trunk. I knew you weren’t feeling too well so I had Mike take a look at it.

You let that Mike touch my ride? Carl straightened a flame in his eye. Sylvia almost smiled as she secured the trunk lid with a bit of clothesline. It was the first emotion he’d shown in weeks.

Oh, honey, she soothed pushing him back into the front seat while waving goodbye to his relieved parents. They loved Carl, but lived on Social Security and were happy to see his appetite leave with him. I know Mike isn’t half the mechanic you are—wave , Carl—but you haven’t been yourself lately so I thought maybe we ought to go.

Darn, Carl stomped the pedal pissed. The car jerked down the road belching smoke. I almost had that carburetor completely fixed and now that Mike’s messed it up. Sylvia said nothing as he whipped the Chevy through the empty streets. She was happy they were moving.

Carl, energized by his anger, drove all that night through to morning even though Sylvia had asked him to stop several times so she could pee. She ended up doing her business in an empty coffee can while Carl sped down the road. She didn’t suppose it would help any if she repeated Mike’s warning not to drive over fifty five and frequently check the oil. Carl was hard on his automobiles she had to admit, which is probably why he did most of his moving on foot. Which was fine back in town. Out here where large fields blurred together monotonously for hundreds of miles, walking could take a while.

After a long, rainy afternoon, the Chevy started to chug, cough, and smoke seriously. Carl yanked it over and threw up the hood. Sylvia put it down.

Carl, that engine has breathed its last.

Who says, Carl responded petulantly, that doggoned Mike?

As a matter of fact, she responded in silence as Carl burrowed in the trunk.

Goldarnit, you forgot my tools, he accused.

You don’t have any tools, said his wife who had traded them to Mike for repairs. Look, honey, she said as an old pickup pulled to a stop beside them, we got a ride." She handed him his suitcase. It rained and rained.

After a few miles Carl snuggled up to her all wet and smelling like an old sock.

Syl? he said in a small voice she could barely hear in the wind.

What? she yelled.

I’m sorry I complained, he said looking up at her with his big eyes. Really, I’m glad to be away. We’ll find something. Long hours, high pay.

You bet, she said giving him an affectionate pat. Now hush and let me sleep.

Hours later, she awoke all wet and cold. It was still raining. Carl lay all curled up around a suitcase snoring away. Where were they and what direction? And hadn’t she seen that same old abandoned gas station over and over again? Sylvia tapped the back window startling the old man who bumped his head on the roof.

I’m sorry, he apologized profusely turning the truck off the road, I forgot all about you two.

Did you know you were driving in circles? she asked.

Ain’t we all, young lady, ain’t we all?

Sylvia looked down the road as the truck disappeared into the horizon. No doubt if they kept standing there, they’d be seeing him sooner or later. She looked up the way they’d been and every other direction. There was nothing absolutely nothing and it was growing dark fast.

I’m hungry, Carl said rubbing his belly. She gave him the peanut butter. It was all the food they had.

After it grew dark they sat there on their suitcases and watched the stars.

I just thought of something, Carl said suddenly depressed.

What?

That old geezer’s got my gun.

Oh, no, said Sylvia hiding her relief and she leaned over to pat his hand. Honey, even if you don’t have a gun, I still think you’re a man. They sat there in the cold and dark. A few cars passed; no one stopped. One carload of drunken teenagers paused only to hurl empty beer cans and obscenities before racing off.

Who do they think they are? Sylvia angrily demanded as the moon slipped from behind the clouds. No one answered. She could just barely see Carl’s thin, dark, sag-shouldered frame stumbling toward a small copse of trees. Carl? she called. Silence. Darn you, she yelled picking up both suitcases. He was certainly the modest type having to walk all that way to pee. Well, she wasn’t going to sit her all alone. What if those kids returned?

It was hard walking in the field. She tripped on the dark furrows and lost one shoe. Carl! she called, I can’t carry two suitcases in the dark wearing one shoe. Honey? But he was hidden by the trees.

She threw down both suitcases and had a seat. The rain stopped, but the moon had slipped away. She was wet, cold, and her husband had disappeared into the world’s smallest forest. And she wasn’t following. Not for better or worse and certainly not until she could see. Sylvia sat there, her head in her arms, listening to the wind stir the leaves. A salt tear trickled down the side of her nose to her lips. She fell gradually to sleep dreaming fitfully of tigers riding bicycles for some reason.

TWO

The sun rose early beating down on Sylvia’s stiff neck. A distant truck loaded with squealing pigs bound for slaughter downshifted thunderously. Rising stiffly, she brushed dried mud off her dress. There was still no sign of Carl.. A bird twittered on a cottonwood branch. Was it making fun of her?

Oh, shut up, she grouched. It did. Immediately she felt sorry. Wasn’t the bird’s fault Carl was weird. Peering into the world’s smallest forest, she was hesitant to enter. What if her man was dead? Honey, she asked the mass of rustling leaves, you in there? No answer.

Sitting back on her suitcase, Sylvia watched the yellow sun bake the moisture out of the hard earth. Her stomach growled. Poor Carl. There he was stuck in the middle of some trees, maybe dead or hurt and she was too chicken to go see. She imagined his funeral. Her standing there all dressed up weeping with maybe just a little cotton stuffed in her brassiere. Suddenly that thought annoyed her. Who was he to be always dissatisfied with her bust size? And who made him perfect anyway? They wouldn’t be in this mess if he’d had a decent job.

Instantly she regretted her mean thought. God knows they didn’t shut down the plant and kill the whole town off just to inconvenience her.

Those creeps! she said out loud angrily. How could they do that, label all the workers worthless and lazy? How would those bosses feel if everyone came right out and said they were crooked and greedy and did nothing but play golf? It was true. Everyone knew it. You just didn’t discuss some things where some boss could hear you. Oh, God, I'm sorry, she prayed apologizing realizing she was polluting her soul with bad thoughts. Hadn’t the Reverend Jimmy always said they should trust their betters who were appointed by the Lord and do what they were told?

Well, I wonder, she blurted aloud once more remembering how that Jimmy Junior preacher had stole the church building fund and run off with the under-aged teenage daughter of the choir director. But there she was again thinking bad thoughts. She knelt down and prayed.

Dear God, I’m sorry, I’m just a little bitter, that’s all. I’m sure they had a wonderful reason for taking our jobs away. Could you make my husband happy and find him a job? Or, she added quietly, at least increase my bra size? She squashed a mosquito that had landed on her arm leaving a spot of bright red blood. I just bet you were rich, she said. Probably had other mosquitoes working for you and paid them peanuts. She smiled, in a much better mood. The bird started singing again. Deciding it was high time, for better or worse, to find her husband, Syl plunged into the world's smallest forest.

Mosquitoes buzzed her head like little owners in airplanes, her skirt got tangled in the twigs, and her nylons, well, why mention it? Where was that man of hers?

Reaching the top of a slight rise she stumbled into a hollow circled by boulders. Wood smoke trickled from a crackling fire. Something tasty smelling was roasting over a nice bed of glowing coals. Carl? she said involuntarily salivating. Honey, are you there? What’s bothering you? You know, I prayed to God, I think he increased my bra size a little. Wouldn’t you like to look?

But only the breeze rustling shiny green cottonwood leaves disturbed the peace. Still, whatever the heck was sizzling away on the fire sure looked good. Sylvia edged closer keeping a cautious eye out for anything unexpected and helped herself to what looked like the leg of a chicken or some kind of funny duck. Someone suddenly giggled. Gasping, she looked straight up. Was that her husband sitting on a tree branch? And where were his clothes?

Honey? she asked choking down a mouthful of roasted meat. He giggled bouncing up and down. Well, she shrugged, his body was still kicking but it seemed that his mind had gone. Oh well, there was no use getting excited about the situation until after a nice hot meal.

Ow! Carl yelped.

Oh, honey, she asked through a full mouth, you okay?

I got my testicles snagged in this tree.

Oh, my, she clucked sympathetically, I guess that’s why God invented underwear. Carl managed to disentangle his manhood and jumped heavily to the ground.

Did you know I got Indian blood? he announced rubbing his sore feet. They stung a little from the jump.

Uh, no, Carl, I sure didn’t. Oh, honey, she said wincing too. Don’t those owners—I mean—mosquitoes bite you in the worst places?

Nothing bothers us Indians, he said attempting to squat. He fell over on his butt. Sylvia blushed to see his manhood dangling in the dust looking like a dead snake. Hey Carl asked, how’d you like that puppy dog?

Puppy? she retched.

Nice fat one. Woke up this morning, little sucker was licking my fingers.

Puppy? she repeated getting woozily to her feet.

Tasty, huh? It’s a delicacy to us, Indians, he informed her as he proudly helped himself to a front leg.

Sylvia watched uneasily as Carl, his skinny little thing dragging in the dirt, munched away. This must be one of those worse parts of their marriage again. Still, she had to admit the puppy was tasty and she hated for good food to go to waste.

Good, huh? Carl smiled through greasy lips as she squatted in the dust.

Mmm, Syl agreed pretending it was just chicken.

It’s better than dirt, Carl said. I tried some last night. Mud wasn’t so bad, but that dry stuff kept sticking in my throat.

Carl? she asked wanting to talk about something besides food.

Yeah?

You’re not going to walk around like that are you?

Like what?

Like jay-bird naked?

Us Indians like naked.

But Carl, she responded plaintively, people will talk.

That’s right, he grinned. They’ll say there goes that bare-ass Indian. Anyways, it don’t matter what they say because us Indian’s are invisible--at least to white folks.

I see you, Sylvia remarked.

That just proves you’re an Indian. He paused to swallow. We’ll build a tee pee, hunt buffalo. It’ll be fun. Beats looking for some job they’ll just pick up and move to Taiwan.

Hmm, she replied gazing up at the bright blue sky. Poor Carl. It must have been the strain of being unemployed. Some drank, got depressed; got religion. Carl got to be an Indian and eat puppy dog. He took her hair in his hand.

What are you doing?! she cried backing off.

Just checking. An Indian ought to have black hair but I guess brown is close enough.

At least it isn’t kinky and red like yours, she observed a little miffed.

Won’t be kinky. I’m gonna have it permed.

Where, at some Indian beauty parlor? she asked unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

Hey, us Indians got everything those white folks got and more. He suddenly whooped loudly. Sylvia jumped to her feet.

Carl! she started angrily. He held up his palm for silence.

Speak when you’re spoken to, Squaw. This brave has got a little communing to do with the Great Spirit. He rose, shook his kinky red mane, and turning on his heel with great dignity slipped into the brush.

Sylvia raised an arm to her head to brush off an owner. She noticed she was somewhat aromatic.

Hey Chief! she called out, there any way for us Indians to take a bath?

Huh? Carl grunted.

Ask your Great Spirit where’s the shower?

Great Spirit’s on hold for now; I'm pooping.

Oh, said his wife catching a whiff. That man of hers could spend hours in a bathroom. She got up to look for water.

Carl joined her some time later at the edge of the trees. Heat shimmered off the dry fields.

We got any toilet paper? he asked.

Now what’s an Indian need with toilet paper? she couldn’t help but smile. Carl didn’t smile back.

I suppose I could use a leaf, he allowed scrubbing himself vigorously with the nearest leaves at hand, a fistful of poison oak. Moments later he commenced an interesting variation of the war dance.

So now what? Sylvia asked from her perch on the suitcase after he calmed down.

Now what, what? Carl replied testily. Lacking ointment, he had soothed himself with the last of the peanut butter; only now he couldn’t sit for the ants.

Now what, next? she continued patiently.

I don’t know, he groused. Why you asking me?

Cause you’re the Chief Indian.

I am?

Well, I suppose I could be Chief.

No way, he snapped. You’re a woman.

Hey, women can be Chiefs. You ever heard of Pocohontas?

Poco who? asked Carl. History had never been his strong suit.

You don’t know Pocohontas? she retorted scornfully. Some Indian; didn’t you see the cartoon?

Okay, okay, admitted the embarrassed Carl. You can be Chief too.

Equal Chiefs? she asked cautiously.

Oh, I guess, he fumed. But you got to start acting like an Indian.

I ate that puppy dog.

That’s nothing. Anyone can eat puppy. Now you got to take off your clothes.

Take off my what? she said after a pause.

You heard. All Chiefs got be bare-ass naked just like me.

Indians wear clothes. Pocohontas wore a buckskin dress.

That’s right, buckskin, he said triumphantly. No raggedy nylons, no skirts made out of polyester, nothing like that. So until you wear what a real Indian would wear seems only fair you wear nothing. Her heart sank, she felt ill.

Couldn’t I at least wear my underwear?

Did Pocohontas wear a brassiere? he smirked.

Well, he had her there, she cursed silently slipping off her clothes. Wasn’t that just like a man? Equality meant acting just as stupid and crazy as they did.

You lied, he accused as her breasts dangled free from her old brassiere. You told me they got bigger.

I said I prayed, she shot back. Besides, no real Indian reads Playboy.

What’s Playboy got to do with it? I bet that Pocohontas has hooters the size of--

Now that’s enough right now! she blazed. I’m a Chief too. From now on there’s not gonna be one more word about the size of my boobs. Carl’s face reddened, ashamed. It suddenly occurred to him she might not be totally satisfied with the size of his body parts as he snuck a look down at his crotch.

Well, I hope you’re happy, she said stretching her naked body in the sunlight as mosquitoes moved in for the kill.

Got any make up? Carl wanted to know.

What for? she asked swatting bugs.

War paint. We got to go on a raid. Puppies don’t grow on trees.

We gonna find us a puppy herd? she asked sarcastically; then wished she hadn’t. Goldarn, she was mean.

A puppy herd? Carl looked at her like she was mentally retarded. There ain’t no such thing. We got to find us a pet shop. She sighed and gave him her handbag. What was the use arguing?

Sylvia sat in the shade of a cottonwood over an hour slapping mosquitoes as Carl carefully applied his Max Factor war paint. She could see that with him what was Indian and wasn’t would have a lot to do with convenience.

Carl?

What? he responded trying to get the eyeliner just right.

I’m getting awful thirsty.

Uh, huh, he agreed.

We need water?

Can’t you see I’m busy? You go look.

You want me to look for water dressed like this?

You look great.

I’m naked. Why, some white man or something could see me like this and get all sexually excited.

He does, I’ll take his scalp.

A lot of good that would do me.

Hey, it’d do you plenty. I’d take his scalp, we’d kidnap his woman. She could help with all that women’s work.

Women’s work? she asked not liking the sound of that.

Uh huh, he replied not taking his eyes from the mirror. You know, getting water, cooking food, raising the kids. You want to do all that yourself?

So what are you gonna be doing during all this? Working on Indian cars?

Indians don’t have cars. It’s a shame, I know it, but that’s the truth, he admitted. Of course a smart Indian could always invent one. I don’t know, he continued in a dreamy tone. I guess I’ll spend most of my time raiding farmers and taking scalps.

Sounds like fun. For you. Me and the slaves working while you’re out goofing off.

Are you kidding? he asked outraged. Sneaking up on farmers is hard work. You think it’s so easy, you try it.

That’s a deal. You do all that women’s work, and I’ll find the puppy dogs.

But I can’t even cook, he wailed turning around.

You can’t put on makeup either, she said stifling a giggle at the sight of him, but you could learn.

I don’t look fearsome? he asked looking as if he’d been dipped in a vat of finger paint.

No, if you want to know the truth, she replied slapping a mosquito. She was in no mood to coddle his male ego.

Well, it’s too late now, he said a trifle disappointed. He squatted, grabbed a huge rock, and, grunting deeply, lifted it up.

"What are you doing?

We’re going puppy hunting. He staggered off.

You’ll give yourself a hernia.

You got any better ideas for fighting farmers?

You won’t have to fight. Some farmer sees you like that, he’s gonna laugh himself to death.

Laugh? Carl repeated dropping the rock. He stood there shoulders sagging. Sylvia softened. Poor thing, even if he did look a sight, it wasn’t his fault he’d lost his mind.

Oh honey, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so mean.

Maybe it’s your time of the month? he asked looking forlorn.

Yeah, I’m having a time, all right, she agreed looking out over the low, dry hills. I guess I’m just mad. It isn’t your fault. She planted a kiss on his painted cheek. It’s just...well, anyways, you looked darned fearsome and any farmer sees you, why he’s gonna have a heart attack he’ll be so scared.

You think? Carl said brightening up.

I would, she said. It wasn’t too far from the truth.

Let’s go then, said her suddenly excited husband taking off at a quick trot over the burning fields. Seconds later he was hipping and hopping back to the world’s smallest forest.

Ouch, that’s hot dirt.

I guess we need us some moccasins, added Sylvia.

Doggone it all, Carl complained, I was already to do some serious scalping. Hey, what’re you doing?! Sylvia was pulling on her clothes.

Carl, it’s fine being an Indian and all but until you get me some Indian clothes, this Indian’s wearing these. Anyways, plenty of Indians wear cowboy hats and blue jeans. I’ve seen it on TV.

They’re not real Indians, he protested.

Carl, she gave him a look, you want to tell them that? She finished dressing while Carl sat pouting in the shade. Finally, he got up and disappeared in the bushes coming back with his pants and shoes.

I’m not wearing a shirt and that’s final.

Suit yourself.

At least you could put some paint on your face. That’s not too much to ask.

I don’t think women wear war paint, she told him.

Hey, you want to be an equal chief, you got to wear the paint, he demanded.

Okay, okay, she said with resignation streaking her face with lipstick without even looking in the mirror.

Hey, all right, said her admiring husband. Those farmers are gonna scream with fear.

Goodie, she sighed.

Man it’s hot, Carl gasped after about a mile. Let’s go back to the trees. He turned to look back at the world’s smallest forest. All around them stretched dry fields, the shimmering highway and distant hazy hills.

We need water, Sylvia reminded him.

We’ll dig a well.

Let’s just find us a farmer. She resumed walking.

I wonder where they all are? asked Carl as they staggered over the hard furrows.

Probably sitting inside their air conditioned farm houses having a nice cool coke.

You think? Carl croaked. I guess we could have us a cool coke before we burn down their house. Hey, what’s that? A ways off ahead of them dust boiled off the dry fields.

Just our luck, a tornado, said his wife not feeling too hopeful right now. Carl stared a good long while.

Hey, Syl, he finally said, I think that’s a farmer. Sure enough, right in the middle of that boiling dust was four big rubber tires and a farmer sitting high in his air conditioned tractor cab. Carl let out a war whoop and ran.

Let’s get him! he yelled. We’ll take his scalp, his wife and every can of coke he’s got! Sylvia ran too not sure what else to do. They ran and ran but the farmer in his tractor was going fast. The boil of dust got smaller and smaller until it all but disappeared.

We got him now, Syl, Carl gasped slowing to a walk, let’s move in for the kill. Syl? He stopped, turning. Sylvia had already slowed to a walk a few hundred yards back. Doggone it, woman, he’s gonna get away.

Carl, he’s already gone. Why don’t we raid us a Mom and Pop? At least they stay put.

Fine! Carl stomped raising little boils of dust. You find us one, we’ll raid it. Some Indian. He threw himself down in the dirt. I wish I were dead! Sylvia waited gasping in the white hot sun. Carl got to his feet. It was those goldarned ants going after that peanut butter again.

They kept walking, getting drier, more depressed. Carl stopped. He was watching something far off.

What’s that? he asked.

Sylvia looked up from where she was watching her feet shuffle through the dust. A smile stretched across her parched face. Tall hoops of metal wheeled slowly across the fields connected by a long black pipe. Irrigation equipment. She ran flailing her arms.

Water, Carl, water! she yelled. Carl was instantly on his guard.

Careful, Syl, he cried after her in a cracked voice. It could be some sneaky farmer trick! Paying no attention, she ran and ran, only water on her mind until she reached the pipes. With her feet sploching up and down in the wet mud, she was gasping and sucking and carrying on so you’d have thought she was having sex. Syl drank and sipped and slathered tearing off all her clothes wallowing in the black soup like an undersized albino water buffalo. Water, water, wet cool delicious water cooling her baked skin, bringing back her voice. She felt green and growing like some tropical plant her toes planted deep in the steaming, verdant mud.

Carl wouldn’t run. He barely walked. Once he realized that strange contraption of the white man wasn’t dangerous, he preferred to take the calm, dignified Indian approach treading slowly after the tall aluminum hoops as they rolled majestically across the fields. Sure he was thirsty, just as thirsty as Syliva but this Brave had an image to preserve.

Carl, Honey, come on, it’s great! Sylvia yelled all wet, and happy; slathered in black glistening mud. Women, Carl snorted mentally in superior distaste. They couldn’t take it when the buffalo chips hit the fan. Sure was clear to him who was the better Indian.

A few hundred feet off, he continued to walk with the stateliness and dignity of a great chief.

A yellow pickup rumbled up a side road from the east. A farm worker jumped out wearing a straw hat and lugging a big wrench. Carl froze instantly crouching to blend in with the field. A treacherous sneak attack by the white man! The worker strode quickly to a roadside tangle of pipes and started cranking away. Foolish white men, Carl chortled slyly to himself. Capturing their puppies would be so easy. A smile slowly creased his pink face.

The water went off with a loud squeak, the great metal hoops rolling to a halt. The paleface jumped back in his yellow pickup and flew off down the road boiling dust with the music up loud.

Hurry, Carl, hurry! hollered Syl as the nice cool irrigated dirt sizzled under the white sun. Run! she screamed as mud caked instantly to her skin flaking to the steaming earth. Carl stared forgetting his stateliness, dignity, and image. Now he was just some poor dried up sucker who hadn’t had a sip in years. He ran, running for all he was worth, which wasn’t much since he was seriously out of shape.

Water, he gasped, water, he pled to his wife’s anxious face. All around them dust boiled, the mud cracked and popped. There was not a sip of water to be had except an inch of rapidly evaporating H2O Sylvia held in her cupped palms.

I saved you this, she practically apologized. Carl slurped desperately like a camel in the desert slopping half of it down his front. Falling to the dirt, he rolled around over and over wailing.

I’m gonna take his scalp! Sylvia did feel sympathetic. Still, if he hadn’t been acting the big shot Indian, he wouldn’t have such a bad case of cotton mouth. Carl sprang to his feet and took off.

Now what? called his wife thinking he’d really lost it this time.

The pipes. That’s where it is. All we could want. Carl yelled as he ran, tripped, fell and crawled his way to the tall glistening shut-off valve sparkling in the midday sun. He attacked, whacked, wrestled, cursed, and threatened the valve, but what he really needed was a pipe wrench.

Honey? Sylvia asked as Carl worked a large nut over with his teeth.

Arghmnphmm?

Your dentist is not gonna like you for that.

Carl stared up at her with wild eyes.

I got to have water, he said releasing the bolt.

I know that, honey.

I’m dying of thirst.

Carl, you see here? There’s a teeny tiny little drip. Maybe if you just turn over on your back with your mouth open you’ll get what you need.

Gee, Syl, you think?

Well, it took all that day and the rest of the night but drip by agonizingly slow drip Carl got himself a drink. Meanwhile, Sylvia more than familiarized herself with the landscape. She looked north, she looked south, she looked east, she looked west, and then she looked north again. Far off on the highway the occasional truck grumbled by now and again.

Carl? Syl asked after sunset. It was now pleasantly cool and dark. You get enough to drink?

No, he replied emphatically with his mouth wide open staring at the drip. He didn’t want to miss a drop.

I guess then maybe we’ll spend the night? Carl made a gulping noise. Sylvia watched stars twinkle in the cloudless sky. You know what I think? she asked as one more drop of water plopped into Carl’s open mouth, I think we’d have a lot more fun being cowboys. We could live outside, sure, but instead of running around naked getting bit in the worst places we’d wear flannel shirts and jeans. And we’d ride horses, Carl. We wouldn’t have to walk all day! Her talk grew excited. Heck, honey, we could be outlaws if we wanted, you know, like Jesse James, or Billy the Kid? That way we could still rob farmers but we wouldn’t, you know, have to steal their puppy dogs—just their jewelry, right, and cold hard cash. We could buy us a car then, or a bus ticket and instead of walking around out here dying of thirst, we could be sitting in some air conditioned bus sipping cokes and reading motorcycle magazines. Doesn’t that sound great? She sat there waiting for an answer, but then Carl snored as the occasional drip of water caused him to choke and sputter as it plopped down his open throat.

Sylvia awoke to the blare of country music. The yellow pickup skidded to a stop. Peering cautiously out of the ditch she saw the worker lurch drunkenly from the cab. Unzipping, he relieved his bladder all over her snoring man.

Do you mind!? she jumped up madder than hell. "Can’t a person get some sleep?

Help squeaked the farmhand at this apparition from the ditch as he pinched his penis with his zipper. He ran yelping for his truck.

Some people, Sylvia said disdainfully examining her snoring husband. Unemployed, crazy, and getting peed on. Carl couldn’t win.

The morning sun spread out over the horizon like a big fried egg. Sylvia awoke, rubbed her mouth, her stomach growling. She’d been having a dream about pancakes smothered in peanut butter and butterscotch syrup—her favorite. A little bird perched on the pipe next to her and let off a sharp trill of complaint. What was that awful smell? With a wince, she remembered what’d happened to Carl last night. She and the bird moved upwind.

Boy, sleeping in the dirt is no treat, Syl said making little conversation with the bird as she rubbed her stiff back. The bird hopped from the pipe to Carl’s head. Looking up at her, it trilled angrily peeved Carl was hogging the drip all to himself.

Oh be nice to him, she groused flicking a pebble its way. I bet nobody peed on you recently. The bird cocked its head at that and pecked a bit of water that had settled in Carl’s ear. Carl stirred moaning something about spark plugs. Syl got up to look around.

It grew hot quickly. To the north, south, east, and west, heat shimmered from the ground. Syl was so hungry her stomach lost the energy to growl. Food, she had to find food. Following the dirt lane to the highway, she searched the ground hoping to find something—a candy bar, maybe an old apple. At this point even puppy dog looked good.

Walking pensively, she considered the future and her husband, the Indian. Heck, he couldn’t get a job sane. Now who would hire him? She looked over the fields uneasily. It was hot now, hotter than hot, but what about when winter came? Would they live like Eskimos in a snow drift, and what the heck would they eat?

From where the dirt lane intersected the highway, she looked up the road and down hoping to spot a Mom and Pop—for all the good that would do them. They were broke. Everything they owned was sitting in a couple of suitcases in the middle of the world’s smallest forest. The bird joined her tweeting and hopping a little ways from her feet. Sylvia eyed it hungrily. The bird seemed to realize this and hopped a little farther keeping a wary eye on her.

It was the bird that first spotted the half-eaten bag of Korny Kurls chirping angrily at Syl to keep back. Syl was just able to snatch the bag before the bird could carry it off in its little beak.

I was going to share, Sylvia said wiping a bit of bird shit from her hair. In revenge for the aerial bombing, she ate everything only relenting at the last Korny Kurl. The bird wolfed it down.

After that, they worked as a team. The bird flying ahead scouting for likely garbage, and Sylvia opening the bags. Still, what they found would hardly satisfy a bird’s appetite, let alone Sylvia. Eventually it fluttered off.

Sylvia sighed. Hot, tired, filthy, thirsty, she was the lowest she’d ever been. Even her little feathered friend had gone. When the next tractor trailer came barreling down out of the low hills, something snapped inside. Weeping, yelling, laughing, screaming, she ran. A truck, a truck with a real live person driving who could save her from dying all alone in the middle of nowhere with birds picking her bones and her crazy Indian man. She thrust out her chest, primped, considered undressing—anything, anything to get out of here.

Half a mile up, moving fast, Peg spotted something. Was she suffering highway hallucinations or was that some painted woman shouting and screaming on the side of the road?

One more crazy, Peg murmured once she was sure she was seeing what she was seeing intending to pass on by. And pass on by is what she would have done but Sylvia ran right to the center line. Peg stomped the brakes about dying from the adrenaline blast but managed to stop her rig. Angrily, she yanked her air horn. It echoed off the hills. What the hell do you think you’re doing!? she yanked open her window and yelled. Syl stopped undulating and thrusting. The trucker was female? Bursting into tears, Syl leapt for the door. Peg rolled up her window.

Please, Sylvia begged, wailed and wept. I’m dirty, I smell, I’m hungry, I’m thirsty—Won’t you let me in?

Peg tapped the window pointing to a little sign that said: No Riders,

Please, please, please, pretty please? Syl begged pressing her face against the glass.

Shaking her head, Peg looked the other way cursing silently. Couldn’t people read simple English?

I could just ride out here, Syl said pitifully clinging to the door handle.

Suit yourself, Peg yelled trying her best to look mean. Maybe if she drove a couple of miles this nut would get tired and get off. Peg put it in gear. Sagging in relief, Syl almost lost her grip on the mirror as the rig picked up speed. Feet half-dangling from the running board, half-blinded by the wind, she was leaving. Ah, life was good.

Inexplicably, the rig slowed down again. Syl opened her eyes.

Running down the center line, his skinny chest heaving, was Carl waving a rock over his head. Sylvia winced at the sight of him. Did she look that bad?

I assume you know this guy? Peg asked dryly out her window cracked down just a quarter inch.

Huh? Syl asked.

It looks like the two of you belong to the same tribe....of dingalings, she added under her breath.

No, it’s a lie! Syl suddenly screamed. I’m not an Indian. Drive, she begged.

You let my woman go!! Carl screeched in a high pitched voice threatening to bounce a boulder off the front of the truck.

Tell Big Chief you’re okay, Peg said struggling to keep a straight face.

Carl, you go away, Syl yelled kicking out at him and almost falling off the rig "I’m just