The Small Penis Blues
They lived across a gravel lane from each other in the bedraggled little desert town. It was just close enough to civilization to survive, but just far enough away to negate any real economic opportunities. Like most such places, it had an interesting history and previous life as a real community, when the mines were working and a reasonable person could make a living and create a life if they desired to.
But the mines and the jobs were long gone, and so the place was populated by those who live on the fringe, for good reasons or not. Cranky blue collar retirees who just wanted to be left alone to amass a pile of detritus in their yard before they passed. Exhausted old hippies who had come to the end of the line, used up all their options, and just needed to be somewhere that they could live indoors and survive on social security. A few normal folks who were there for some legitimate reason, and artists of all stripes, some talented and some not. It was a place where you could get by on 1,000.00 a month if you had to, spending your winters planning and scrimping for your escape from the brutal and life-threatening summers. And there was the desert; free, big and beautiful, mysterious, and as meaningful as you wanted to make it.
He was probably approaching 50, a handsome blonde man with fashionably long hair, a good headful of it. He was competent and clever, having left the educational system after high school and acquired many essential skills that allowed him to always live comfortably. He was an ace mechanic. He could operate heavy equipment. He could manage computers and a smart phone well enough to get things done. He was adequate at carpentry, welding, plumbing, and electrical work. He could stay as busy as he wanted to be, and make good money, much of it in cash and off the tax grid, leaving behind a network of handy connections and generally satisfied clients. In recent years he had begun to move things; almost anything. He had a huge, dually pick up truck and access to several trailers and was often off on some well-paid adventure. He moved a valuable heirloom organ from Nashville to New Orleans. He brought horses to Montana from somewhere. He would sometimes sneak a seriously overloaded trailer of heavy equipment from one destination to another nearby, often late at night, allowing everyone involved to get their work done without those pesky permits and escort cars. And, along the way, (or so he said) he had an endless string of sexual encounters and collisions, always getting what he needed out of the deal before roaring off into the sunrise in his giant truck.
It had been a good life for him, it was apparently what he wanted. A vagabond swordsman with money always in his pocket and an endless string of interesting and well-paying jobs just over the horizon. How was it then that he ended up in this poor little town, a bit too far from anywhere significant? Somewhere along the way he had produced a son, and the son was here in this quirky place, working a government job of some sort that promised a future for him. The son had recently married, and he wanted to be a part of their lives, so he was here.
And besides, the winter weather in the desert was delightful, and on cold winter nights the local hot springs were a wonderful treat for tired muscles and socializing, and maybe more. For years they had aspired to be World Famous Hot Springs, but in the end, they were just hot. On weekends there were always adventurers, including women, stopping through from Las Vegas or Southern California. The constant parade of possibilities and encounters was an interesting and fun past-time while he planned out his next big moves for the upcoming driving season out there. He was generally well-liked, and why not? In a small town at the end of the road a competent worker was a valuable ally to have when needed.
She had been a vagabond herself; a little too young to be a true hippie, but she was of that persuasion. Although that movement was long gone, back in the last century, the appeal of the ideal still captured the imagination of some. A little older than him, attractive and maniacally optimistic, her life had brought her back to this little town. For many years she and her former husband had come through during the winter tourist season, driving a fantastical vehicle that could not be missed. A giant, custom-made camper that folded out into a small stage for puppeteering, story-telling, and other small and genuine forms of folk art and entertainment. It somehow folded back up into their living quarters, and for years they traveled the country, hitting a circuit of county fairs, community celebrations, and other festivals where people generally came to spend a bit of money and have a good time. They really were a traveling roadshow, with juggling, hula hoops, and whatever else they could manage to do competently. She was an excellent calligrapher, and the camper was decorated with beautiful and handsome writing and proclamations. Everywhere they went people stared and invariably came to see what they were about. They were out of time and in some places out of step, perhaps, but they did it with such good cheer and style that onlookers always chipped in something, and thus they made a living. And then one winter she returned alone. The truck was gone and the husband too, somehow their mutual adventure had ended. She had remembered the wonderful winter weather and the cheap living in this little place and the nice bubbling hot springs on the very edge of Death Valley. She found a nearly abandoned double wide on a generous piece of land, got a job, made the deal, and dug in for the long haul. She remained cheerful, ready for the next chapter of her life. Predictably she got way into yoga, it helped her immensely, but it might have been the start of the whole problem.
Her new neighbor across the gravel road had spotted her instantly, or more accurately he had spotted that her husband was no longer in the picture. She was older, but still attractive to his eye. He had seen her spending lots of time doing yoga on her porch, which he scoffed at for some unknown reason. As the days went by and the yoga continued, it began to annoy him, as did her incessant cheeriness. She wasn't sarcastic and didn't seem interested in the local gossip; did she think she was something special? What else are you going to do in a tiny town if not be in other peoples business? She spent her time productively, tidying the yard, planting trees, re-painting inside, and turning a forlorn old trailer into a home that someone obviously cared about. She upgraded the neighborhood, and for some reason he couldn't stand it.
One day she mounted a beautifully painted, meticulously lettered sign on her driveway fence. It said, "Smile and be happy, have a wonderful day!" He couldn't take it. Maybe he was having an off day, or who knows why, but one night he quietly walked across the gravel road with a broad tipped sharpie in his hand, and in giant, foot tall letters he wrote F#%K YOU diagonally across her lovely sign. And then he went home, never saying anything to anyone.
When she discovered the vandalism sometime later she was hurt, angry, and bewildered. Who would go to the effort to do such an ugly thing? She mused upon it and considered the possible suspects, and it wasn't long until she fell upon the increasingly surly fellow across the street. She had always been friendly enough to him, but she was world weary and not interested in a relationship with anyone, let alone a self-styled blue collar swashbuckler, who was maybe just a bit full of himself. He had picked up on it, over the weeks his friendly chats had descended into a cursory nod of the head if they happened to be outdoors at the same time. It was him. She knew it. A few days later they were both at the tiny little post office picking up their mail, and she politely confronted him with it. Had he written this obscenity on her sign? On her property? Had he done that? He simply smirked mildly and said, "Smile and be happy. Have a wonderful day." Then he got in his giant truck and drove off, very self-satisfied.
A few days later she learned that he would be gone for several days on a trip with his son. So, early one morning before dawn, she took a couple of her fine brushes and some black and white paint and walked across the gravel road. She was on a mission. The back window of his giant truck was festooned with a handful of oval, black and white stickers from the various national parks he had visited on his travels. All the big ones were there, and she had noticed that one of the older ones was so badly faded as to barely be legible. She was going to fix that. Quietly and skillfully she re-painted the black edging and design of the oval. She freshened up the white inner portion, and re-did the National Park Service design and logo. And then, in the middle, where it should have said YELLOWSTONE, in perfectly matched black letters she wrote; I have a small penis. So now, anyone reading the list of ovals of prestigious parks he had visited would see this;
Yosemite
Grand Canyon
Zion
Bryce
I have a small penis
The paint dried quickly in the fine desert air. Satisfied, she returned home and never said a word about it to anyone.
In rural towns where there is no home mail delivery, the local post office and its parking lot often serve as a social center. Residents and transient snowbirds fleeing their morbid winters for a season in the desert come daily to check for mail, chat with each other, and share gossip with the Postmaster. If you want to know who is not sleeping with who in a small town, the post office is the place to find out. The visitors on their winter circuit stand around and chat amiably, checking out each other’s rigs and telling anyone who is interested where they are headed next. And, in a gentle unspoken competition, they check out the other guy’s window stickers. Each destination is an experience conquered, a place they had dreamed about visiting someday as the sub-zero winds howled around their houses somewhere in the upper midwest. Inevitably someone spotted the oval on his truck window. Word quietly spread the next few days whenever he checked his mail. Astoundingly, no one told him for more than a month; everyone was in on the joke except him. He drove from place to place, making his rounds, making money, and no one said a word. They probably smiled a lot, maybe conjuring up a vision of a midget wiener on this otherwise handsome specimen of a man.
But eventually all good things come to an end, and this one did so in the worst possible way for him; on the internet. A local who just could not stand it any longer took a photo of the oval, in such a way that his truck was clearly recognizable, and posted it on Facebook with the caption, “How’s that small penis thing working out for you?“ When he saw the post, he was mortified. Temporarily catatonic. He walked out to his truck, and sure enough, there it was, a sticker on his window, proclaiming to the world his under-endowment. From 10 feet away it looked like a store bought item. It was only up close, under some scrutiny, it became apparent that it was a finely painted replica of the original, except for the ghastly declaration in the middle of the oval. As he got a razor knife and scraped the offending sticker off of his window, his mind was churning. Who had done this? Who had seen it? How long had it been there? It was now on the internet, for God’s sake, and they say such things last forever there. Someone was going to pay dearly for this. He tried to think about whom he had offended, or how this was pulled off. And then a thought came forward, or rather a memory, of an expertly lettered and crafted sign he had seen up close recently. He looked across the gravel road, and the bright, cheery sign still proclaimed “Smile and be happy, have a wonderful day!” Except that his crude obscenity he had scrawled across it was gone. Like someone had done an expert job of repairing and re- lettering it. It was her. It had to be. As he went back inside he noticed his neighbor across the yard was on her porch doing yoga, and she smiled a big, happy smile at him. And she smiled him all the way back into his house.
His anger was welling as he considered what had happened. He didn’t know what his next move was going to be, but he had to do something or else he was going to explode. He was going to confront her, he decided. Not do anything physical or stupid; as mad as he was he knew that could only end badly for him. He just wanted to confront her. To look in her eyes and shame her perhaps, let her know that by God she had been caught. He didn’t think about it much beyond that.
He strode across the dirt road, in a straight line to her front door and rapped on it loudly. When she answered, he was first struck by what a small little woman she was; he hadn’t been this close to her before. She looked up at him and smiled.
“Yes?“
“Did you paint that sticker on my truck window?“
She didn’t say anything. Rather, she reached down and picked up a small calligraphy paint brush off a table and very gently tapped him on the forearm. He had no idea what to do next. She smiled congenially at him, but in her eyes there was a flicker of something; mess with me will you, and I will mess your life up. She took a step backwards, then slowly closed the door, leaving him standing there, speechless. The word assault sprang into his consciousness.
“Hey, you assaulted me! That was assault!“
No reply.
“I’m calling the Sheriff and having you arrested for assault!“
“Do what you must,“ came the cheery response from inside.
And so that is exactly what he did. He didn’t really stop to think it through, he was feeling self-righteous and so he just went with it. He called the local deputy and explained that he wanted to file an assault charge. Some time later the deputy arrived, and the victim laid out his version of what had transpired. The deputy hurt himself a little bit trying earnestly not to laugh when he heard the part about the offending window sticker. As far as the assault, maybe it would be better if they talked with the alleged assailant before this went too far.
They walked across the road and knocked on her door. She answered, and the deputy explained why they were there. He related the victim’s story about how this had happened, and how she had assaulted him. Well, she replied, it sounds like he left out the first part, about how he had come onto her property and scrawled an obscenity across her sign. What kind of an offense might that be, she asked, vandalism? Trespassing? Both, perhaps? The deputy gave him a long sideways glance. "Prove it!" he shouted, "You have no proof that it was me!" "True enough," she agreed. "What did the deputy think?" she asked. The deputy thought this had devolved into a playground argument, and he wanted to be back in the air-conditioned office diddling on the computer. But of course, this is not what he said. He had, after all, officially responded to a report of an assault.
So he asked the victim, "Look, are sure you want to go ahead with this? You are going to look rather silly, claiming assault with a tiny paint brush by a woman who is older than you and half your size. Plus, if I have to do an official report, I’m going to have to put that part about your small penis down on paper, and it’s going to circulate around the sheriff’s department, and then maybe the D.A’s office. Are you sure you want that?"
“ My penis is not small!“ he roared. “You wanna see it?“
This was a possibility she hadn’t considered, and she took a step backwards across her threshold and grabbed the door. Yikes.
He reached for his zipper. "Oh no, don’t do that," the deputy sternly responded, "or I WILL arrest you."
"On what charge?" he demanded. "I’m supposed to be the victim here!"
"Assault with a tiny weapon?" she suggested. This was getting good. She was enjoying this.
The deputy involuntarily burst out with a snort of laughter before gaining his composure.
"Assault with a teeny weenie?" she offered again.
The deputies eyes watered up as he giggled a little. Beneath his bulletproof vest a large belly laugh strained and pushed against his internal organs, yearning to burst free. It hurt.
He cleared his throat. "Get a grip," he told himself. He cleared his throat again, officiously.
"How about this; you’ve each got one strike against you as far as I can tell. How about if you each agree to stay off the others property, and leave each other alone, and we all just get on with our lives. No real harm done so far, so how about we keep it that way? How would that be?"
"Fine with me," she said, cooperatively. "I have things to."
He was flummoxed, this had not gone at all as he had envisioned. They both stared at him, then as the silence progressed he could see irritation begin to creep into the deputy's eyes. "Time to cut your losses," his little voice told him.
"Whatever," he grumbled. "This isn’t right, but whatever." He waved his arms in disgust, as if to push them away, and left for his house, defeated, at least in his own mind. Back on the porch, the deputy shrugged at the woman, who shrugged back, they bade each other farewell. He headed for the office and she for her yoga mat.
In his trailer across the road, he stewed over what had just happened. What had happened? The deputy had come, humiliated him a bit more, the woman had gotten in a couple more good shots, and he had gotten nothing. He realized now that he hadn’t thought it through before he called the deputy. He realized also that he had done this to himself; it wasn’t the first time this type of thing had happened. And, way down there somewhere in his brain he began to get that niggling little feeling again, the one that plagued him at times like this. The one that told him he just wasn’t quite as smart, or quite as clever as many of those around him. It kicked his confidence out from under him. It gave him what he thought musicians meant when they sang the blues.
He lay down for a while and thought about the world, and his place in it. The more he considered his current situation, he could see no way to reclaim his dignity or get a little payback on the woman without things getting a whole lot worse somehow. What was he supposed to do, go around in the community proving to people that he was reasonably equipped? Go to the post office daily and offer to pull his flopper out in the parking lot for anyone who wanted to draw their own conclusions? Stupidity, of course. The more he thought, the more he decided that he did know what to do. Leave. It was earlier than his normal get-away, but the weather was already warming in the northern states a bit, and that was all he really needed. Go running down the road and loosen his load, as the old song said. He knew that lying here in this bed in this trailer in this desert backwater town was not going to help his deflating mental state. He had been through this before, and he knew that no one was going to help him but him. Get up, get moving, do something productive. He was no psychologist, but he knew that much.
He was gone by the middle of April, a few weeks before his normal migration date. There was a rich guy in Wyoming who was restoring a vintage tractor, and wanted him to dissect, clean, and reassemble the primitive diesel engine. The deal included room and board of some sort, and his head was filled with visions of sexy cowgirls wandering in and out of this rich guys hobby farm. After that he had another job lined up in the beautiful apple country of central Washington, A serious piece of work on some monstrous, more modern piece of farm machinery. With a bit of hustling he could probably get a job to haul something from one place to the other, get the trip paid for and make some money besides. After that, who knows, something would come up, it always did. He pulled out early in the morning, towing his beefed-up flatbed trailer, his giant dually easily handling the load. He noticed the yoga woman was on her porch doing her exercises, and he controlled his initial urge to give her the finger. They watched each other, and then, she gave a small, neutral, tentative wave. He nodded slightly, not imperceptibly, and then was off. There was always next winter.
