{"id":23131,"date":"2022-10-12T16:13:44","date_gmt":"2022-10-12T15:13:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.city-academy.com\/news\/?p=23131"},"modified":"2022-10-14T11:48:02","modified_gmt":"2022-10-14T10:48:02","slug":"red-dirt-by-peter-rose","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.city-academy.com\/news\/red-dirt-by-peter-rose\/","title":{"rendered":"Red Dirt by Peter Rose"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n\t

Red Dirt<\/h2>\n

\u201cYou want I should bring you out a coke or lemonade or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\nIt was still early morning, but Joe was already working up a sweat at the top of the ladder, muscles and veins stuck out in his right arm, dragging the trowel in a smooth action across the adobe wall.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNo, gracias, I'm good.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nHe didn't look down. His eyes stayed fixed straight ahead on the job. There was a bucket lashed to the top rung with a battered army belt and his left arm dipped into it. A hand the size of a shovel dredged up a blob of mortar and slapped it on hard with a soggy thwack. Then an unhurried movement to spread it evenly over the next section. The old wooden ladder creaked and swayed, but Joe worked in perfect balance, never reaching out to steady himself. Left hand dip, right hand spread.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWell, OK, just give me a holler if you change your mind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie walked back into the coolness of the bar and started putting out the chairs and wiping down the tables. The sun outside was blinding, but the striplights were turned up full on account of the windows not having been cleaned for fifty years. Joe had asked if he should mask them out while he was working, but she'd figured another bit of crud wouldn't make a whole lot of difference. She could see him out front now through the open door. He'd used up all the mortar in the bucket and had come down to mix up another batch.
\nA truck pulled in and two men in safety vests and hard hats got out. One older, tall but podgy; the driver, younger and skinnier. They scraped their boots on the curb and headed for the bar.
\nJoe was shovelling rust-coloured earth from the pile in the back of his pick-up onto a tarp spread at the base of the wall. He added a spade or two of lime. Sprinkled some water from the hose that snaked out of the kitchen window and stirred the mix for a while. Then he fetched an old canvas bag out of the cab and dropped in a few handfuls of horsehair and worked it some more.<\/p>\n

\nThe two men took off their hard hats and stopped to watch.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHell, Martinez, you sure do things the hard way.\u201d said the older man, \u201cI'd just nail up some stucco mesh and then use regular Portland cement.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nJoe carried on stirring, stopping now and then to rub the mix between finger and thumb. Then he lifted up a spadeful from the middle and watched how it slumped back into the pile, not looking at them.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt ain't the same\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSure it is,\u201d said the younger one. \u201cScratch coat and brown coat, nobody can tell the difference and it lasts ten times as long.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nJoe got another fistful of horsehair and shook it out slowly, standing straight and solemn, the fibres falling gently into the batch like it was a sacred rite.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI can tell.\u201d he said, still not looking up, \u201cAnyway, these houses have been standing since the conquistadores. You think those cheap frame jobs you throw up are gonna be here in five hundred years time?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cStill looks like a lotta hard work for nothing to me,\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThat's the way I like it.\u201d said Joe.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDumbass,\u201d said the young man. The two of them laughed and went inside. The older man sprawled into a chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. The other put his feet up on the table.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHey Christie, get us some coffee and huevos rancheros, willya.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie was out back in the kitchen.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThat you Larry? I only just opened up. Food's gonna be a while. Coffee'll be ready soon, but I gotta clean the machine first,\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWell, we'll take a couple of cold ones while we're waiting,\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cKind of early, ain't it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDepends what time you started work,\u201d said Larry. \u201cWe been out since sun-up. Woulda still been there excepting the the drywall delivery's broke down on the highway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nThe young man glanced around the room.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhen did they last clean the freaking windows? Place is like a pigsty.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nLarry grinned. \u201cI reckon that would be around nineteen and fifty-eight. They're kind of a local legend. Tourists come to see 'em. At least they did until the interstate got built.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie came over with a tray.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou can get your goddam boots off the furniture,\u201d she snapped.<\/p>\n

\nShe put two Budweisers on the table and took a rusty opener to the tops. Larry waved a bottle in the direction of the younger man.
\n\u201c You know my nephew Ethan?\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie shook her head. \u201cI don't believe so\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOh, I know you,\u201d said Ethan, \u201cMy big brothers told me all about you..\u201d<\/p>\n

\nHe rocked the chair back and sniggered. Larry glowered at him.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI was just telling Ethan about how your Grandaddy used to clean the windows every Sunday.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSo they say,\u201d said Christie, \u201cI never knew him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI remember watching him when I was a kid,\u201d said Larry, \u201cHe was real meticulous. Got every last flyspot and streak out. Man, they shone. Took hours over it. Said it got him out of going to church. Had his own secret formula - vinegar, lemon juice and a shot of bootleg mescal.\u201d
\nEthan took a long pull on the Bud. \u201c\u201cSo why'd he stop?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cRan off with a woman from the pueblo, the old dog\u201d said Larry, \u201cChristie's grandma said screw it, them windows can stay dirty. He can come crawling back on his hands and knees and lick the damn things clean. Haven't been touched since. Ain't that right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI guess,\u201d said Christie, \u201cMomma said Grandma made us swear to keep 'em like that until the sonofabitch begged forgiveness at her graveside.\u201d
\nOf course, the sonofabitch never came back. The grime and insects had mounted up, layer upon layer, decade upon decade until a single shaft of light could barely squeeze through. Years after the old man was dead and buried, Christie had asked if she could clean them now, but her mother had said God, no, it'd be bad for business.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou hear from your folks ?\u201d Larry asked, \u201cHow they liking it out there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cGot a postcard once,\u201d said Christie, \u201cThey like it fine. They say it's cooler in the summer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nHer parents had called it a day after the freeway finally killed the passing trade. Mother had decided they could retire on Dad's pension from the plant. She'd told Christie, you can have your inheritance now, maybe you can make something of this place, it might straighten you out. Anyway, she'd said, your father and me sure as hell don't want to keep paying the bills. They signed the bar over to Christie and left the keys on the counter just before they drove off to the coast.<\/p>\n

\nEthan drained his beer and belched. \u201cLucky them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie heard the machine bubbling and headed back to the kitchen,<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhere you boys working today?\u201d she asked over her shoulder.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cNew subdivision north of the interstate, \u201c said Larry, \u201cGonna be a hundred and forty houses when it's done. We got a few foundations left to lay, but the carpenters are getting the frames up on the rest and we start roofing next week. Another three or four months and the first families'll be moving in.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYeah,\u201d said Ethan, \u201cAbout the same time Martinez is gonna be finishing your wall.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou got that right,\u201d said Larry, grinning.<\/p>\n

\nChristie brought the coffee.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI got the eggs on. Be five minutes or so.\u201c<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI'll take another beer,\u201d said Ethan, \u201cIt's too damn hot for coffee. Too damn hot to work.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cIt don't stop Joe,\u201d said Christie.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWell he's a damn fool,\u201d sneered Ethan.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI wouldn't badmouth him,\u201d said Christie, \u201cHe was in the military. Gulf War.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThat so? Which one?\u201d said Ethan.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cBoth of them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie went and leaned out of the door and called up to Joe.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI'm making huevos rancheros, you want some?\u201d<\/p>\n

\nJoe rested the wooden trowel on the edge of the bucket and gazed critically at his handiwork.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOK. Be down in a minute. I'm nearly done on the front anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie shaded her eyes with her hand and stood for a moment, relishing a gentle puff of wind on her face. A heat haze hung over the cars roaring along the overpass at the end of the block, dissolving the shape of the hills behind into a shimmering umber curtain. She thought she caught a faint smell of gasoline fumes, but then realised the eggs were burning and rushed back to the stove, cursing.<\/p>\n

\nLarry and Ethan laughed out loud.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI hope you got a fire extinguisher out there, girl! \u201d hollered Larry.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYeah, and don't be giving me no burnt salsa neither! \u201d shouted Ethan, \u201cCook some fresh.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nBy the time Christie brought the huevos rancheros out, Joe was sitting at the corner table, his back to the others.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWhat I don't get, \u201c Larry was saying, \u201cIs why any sane man would go to the trouble of driving all the way up there and spend all day digging a truckload of dirt and sifting all the stones and shit out when you can get bags of genuine clay plaster ready-mixed to go. \u201c<\/p>\n

\nJoe shifted round in his seat and ran his fingers along the surface of the adobe.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThis was built with the same red earth. It's a natural bond. It belongs here. That's just how it is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie laid the plates down and went and sat next to him.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSounds kinda spiritual when you put it like that. How come you got into this line of work, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOne time in Iraq,\u201d said Joe, \u201cwe were in this village we'd just taken. I can't even remember the name. But every building was blown to hell. And I saw a man mixing up mud mortar and plugging all the shell holes in his house. Probably took a million bucks of ordnance to put 'em there and here's this little old guy patching it up the same way they done for thousands of years. Like them Babylonians and Hittites and whoever else. Just dirt and water and sweat. Same way my grandmother and all the women in the pueblo used to replaster the houses every summer. And I thought, yeah, that's what I should be doing. Something... \u201c he waved his fork around, trying to think of the right word.
\n\u201cTraditional?\u201d said Christie.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cMore than that,\u201d said Joe, \u201cSomething...connected. With the land, with my family. You know? I liked the idea of a trade so old it's Biblical.\u201d
\n\u201cI guess,\u201d said Christie.<\/p>\n

\nEthan smirked. \u201cYou talking about the oldest profession, there? I can tell you what that is and it sure ain't plastering. Still, Christie'd know all about that, wouldn't ya, Christie.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nJoe put his knife and fork down.<\/p>\n

\nLarry snatched the beer bottle out of Ethan's hand.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou just don't know when to stop running your mouth, do you son?\u201d<\/p>\n

\nHe turned to Joe and Christie.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cDon't take no notice, Christie, he don't mean nothing. Just a stupid kid.\u201d He reached in his back pocket and put a twenty down. \u201cWe better be getting back now. Keep the change. Gimme the keys, Ethan, I'm drivin'.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nEthan didn't move. He put his feet back on the table.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI think I'll stay awhile. I want to finish this discussion on what the oldest profession is. What did you call it, Joe? The biblical trade? Yeah, that's it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie clenched her fists and jumped up, started to take a step forward, but then she stopped and shook her head. \u201cThe hell with it.\u201d she muttered, and turned and walked out.<\/p>\n

\nJoe pushed his chair back and stood up slowly.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWay I see it,\u201d Ethan went on, \u201cis there's always been whores. We read the Bible in Sunday School and if I remember right, there's harlots and harlotry all the way through it, but I sure as hell don't recall no plasterers. So I'm saying that your Biblical trade is whoring and everybody round here knows Christie used to practise it. Hell, she was doing the boys four at a time behind the K-Mart before she left High School.\u201d He tilted back again and sniggered .<\/p>\n

\nLarry swore and made a grab for Ethan but Joe batted him aside like he was swatting a fly. He kicked the chair away and Ethan crashed to the floor. Joe leaned over and, wrapping one of his big hands around the boy's throat, lifted him up effortlessly and slammed him against the wall. Ethan wanted to scream obscenities and threats, but he was gasping for breath as Joe tightened his grip.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou want to know what the real Biblical trade is?\u201d whispered Joe, his mouth next to Ethan's ear. \u201cIt's killing. Before there was carpenters or potters or blacksmiths or any other damn occupation, there was killers and there was death, because that's what mankind had the need and desire for. I learned that trade and I learned it good. You want me to show you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\nLarry looked on anxiously. A hoarse gurgling sound escaped from Ethan's lips.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cHey, come on now, Joe, you made your point.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nThe huge fingers relaxed and Ethan crumpled like a rag doll, choking and sobbing. Larry rushed over and picked him up. He got Ethan's left arm over his shoulder and started to drag him out of the bar. Before they even got to the door, Joe was back at his table and calmly eating eggs as though nothing had happened. After a while he heard Larry's truck leave. He finished his coffee and walked out into the sunlight, squinting for a minute until his eyes re-adjusted to the glare. Christie was leaning against the neon sign that hadn't worked since Nixon, smoking a cigarette. She offered the pack to Joe.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou didn't have to do that,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\nJoe took one and lit up. \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nChristie blew out smoke and sighed. She stared into the distance.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYou seen some sights, Joe. I ain't never been out of these hills.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThat's not a bad thing,\u201d said Joe, \u201cIf everybody's jetting off someplace all the time, just taking pictures and moving on, then the whole world's nothing more than a giant departure lounge. You need people to live in a place for a long time to give it soul. To give it strength.\"<\/p>\n

\n\u201cMaybe,\u201d said Christie, \u201cbut I don't think there's ever been much soul in this town.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cThe only place I went apart from the Army,\u201d said Joe, \u201cwas the summer I left high school. Took a trip to Spain. Figured at least I could speak the language. And you know what? The Spanish they spoke in Madrid wasn't anything like the Spanish I knew. They couldn't understand a damn word I was saying. Or maybe they didn't want to. Looked at me like I was some kind of retard.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cSo what did you do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI stayed one night and got the next plane home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nHe ground the cigarette butt out underfoot and went back to the mixing. Christie watched him climb the ladder with the bucket and start work again. A slow, continuous rhythm, like a tree swaying in the breeze. Like he'd always been there. Like the red dirt hills.<\/p>\n

\nShe went back inside and hunted around in the shelves under the bar. At the back, she found a dusty old bottle of mescal and set it on the counter in triumph. Tomorrow, she was going to clean those damn windows.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>

\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\tEXPLORE OUR WRITING COURSES\t\t<\/span>\n\t<\/a>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>
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I came to creative writing late in life, only starting seriously after I retired. Many of my stories, like Red Dirt,<\/em> have been inspired by trips around the American Southwest, especially the small towns of New Mexico and Arizona, and the people I met there.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Red Dirt \u201cYou want I should bring you out a coke or lemonade or something?\u201d It was still early morning,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[137,129,120,118],"tags":[353,483,2068,2700,715],"yoast_head":"\nRed Dirt by Peter Rose | Runner-up Short Story Competition<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Read Red Dirt by Peter Rose, the runner up story of the City Academy 2022 Short Story Writing Competition...\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.city-academy.com\/news\/red-dirt-by-peter-rose\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Red Dirt by Peter Rose | Runner-up Short Story 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