Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
a novel
by
Seth Greenland
PROLOGUE
Everyone knows that when a certain kind of single American female on a Mexican
holiday drinks too much tequila she will get a tattoo. And when she is in a sybaritic
seaside town like Puerto Vallarta with a girlfriend, they will get matching ones. The
women in question were an attractive pair. They had fallen into the sensual thrall of
Mexico for nearly a week and into the sensual thrall of each other’s arms whenever the
door closed behind them in their cliff top hotel just north of a curving, white sand beach
ringed by gentle green hills. They were visiting from the dry precincts of the Mojave
Desert in Southern California and the aromatic salt breezes wafting in off the Pacific
Ocean released the gossamer ribbons binding all of their gringa inhibitions.
The single woman, lithe, alluring and in her early twenties, and her married lover, two
decades older but no less attractive, had spent the warm early December days playing
tennis, tanning beneath deferential palms, splashing in the turquoise waters, and chasing
the flavorful local seafood with endless pitchers of margaritas, each night at a different
local bar that catered to the crowds of well-to-do tourists who flocked to these shores
each winter. And every evening, pleasantly buzzed, they would stroll back to their hotel,
past Tango Tattoo, a raffish place nestled between a florist and a souvenir shop, which
displayed a sign in English that read Your Design or Ours. The drawings offered by the
artisans at Tango drew inspiration from the locale and featured a variety of mythological,
architectural, and religious motifs borrowed from indigenous culture. Mayan, Incan and
Aztec creatures vied for space on the tattoo parlor walls with, skulls, serpents and saints,
Day of the Dead-inspired designs proliferated alongside popular cartoon characters and
flowers of such vivid reds and yellows, they seemed to emit a scent.
Intoxicated by the combination of anonymity and alcohol, the women would dare each
other to step inside and each time they would laugh and keep walking. But this was their
last night before they would take the plane back to Los Angeles, the connecting flight to
Palm Springs, and car rides back to their separate lives. The holiday had been a lark,
taken at the behest of the single woman and paid for by the married one, whose husband
thought she was deserving of a break with a girlfriend and remained unaware of his
wife’s Sapphic proclivities. Their revels now were ending and this finality lent a sense of
portent not evident in the course of the previous week. The married woman was not
happily married and this splash of freedom had been mitigated by her knowledge of its
impermanence. She was going to be returning to her family the next day; running off with
another woman, making the kind of drastic change that most people never even
contemplate, was simply not in her character. But the thought of commemorating this
week of liberty with nothing more than some photographs to be stared at forlornly,
accompanied by the sounds of her husband’s snoring, nearly made the wedded woman
weep.
married person vacationing without their spouse has no such luxury. Upon the return
home, there will be an unavoidable moment of reckoning when the human canvas can
only hope that the body art will find favor. So credit her for crossing the threshold of the
tattoo parlor, where she hesitated, second-guessing her impulse until her lover suggested
that they get matching tattoos. If I get one, the younger woman had asked, will you? If I
pull up my white linen skirt and let this tattoo artist do his magic, won’t you? Whether it
was the week of sunlight and salt air, the aroma of tanning butter mixed with Chanel #5,
or the sense memory of her companion’s dexterously probing tongue as they lay naked
and entwined, she could never be certain, but when the needle whirred and the point
pressed against her skin with just enough pressure to delicately break the surface the
married woman knew that whatever happened between the two, for better or worse, they
The wife and mother chose a manga design of a kitten. Because who, really, would
object to that? And not on her supple bicep, the top of her breast, the base of her spine or
any of the other places popular for the flaunting of body art but, rather, because she was
nothing if not discreet, on her left buttock where no one save her spouse would ever see
it.
Later that night, in the aftermath of having their bottoms painfully and repeatedly
pierced and stained, the lovemaking was a little more physically uncomfortable than
usual and they both woke up sore, with terrific hangovers and varying degrees of
remorse. If the youthful instigator of the tattoo caper had hoped the inking would bond
the two women, this supposition was quickly deflated by the emotional distance of her
companion who was out of bed, showered, packed and waiting in the lobby within half an
hour of waking. The older woman didn’t want to talk about what they’d done and when
the younger woman tried to joke about it, suggesting they come back next year to get
They rode in silence to the airport and on the flight to Los Angeles the older woman
electronic reading device, unable to settle on anything for more than a few minutes, while
the younger one listened to personal affirmations on an iPod.
They made awkward conversation in the departure lounge at LAX and on the short
flight to Palm Springs, the older woman pretended to sleep. On the sidewalk in front of
the terminal the younger woman tried to kiss her erstwhile lover lightly on the lips but the
older one, still slightly hung over and in residual pain from the needle, turned her head
and they managed only a desultory brushing of ears and hair. Then they took separate
taxis home, one to a complicated marriage, an oft-absent husband, and a child who gave
In the desert the sun is an anarchist. Molecules madly dance beneath the relentless
glare. Unity gives way to chaos. And every day, people lose their minds.
But you wouldn’t know this in Palm Springs, California. A hundred years ago a
wasteland, home of the Cahuilla Indian tribe and a handful of white settlers who had
relocated to this desolate outpost from points east. Today a golden oasis drawing
privileged tourists from cooler climates in search of sunshine, clean air, and a place apart
from the rest of the world. In air-conditioned cars they cruise exclusive neighborhoods
gaping at perfectly restored mid-century modern homes that cling to the inhospitable
land. The verdant lawns are neat as graves. The streets are quiet as Heaven. You would
On a heat-blasted afternoon in late October Jimmy Ray Duke positions himself to the
side of a political rally in the Save-Mart parking lot just off the Sonny Bono Memorial
Highway. Average build, dressed down in a loose black tee shirt, green cargo pants, and
running shoes. Behind dark sunglasses his bloodshot eyes regard Harding Marvin, Police
Chief of nearby Desert Hot Springs, who stands gun barrel straight on a riser that makes
his six-foot four, two hundred and forty pound frame appear even more imposing. Shaved
head looming over a dress blue uniform, Marvin, known to one and all as Hard, is
energized as he steps to the microphone in front of nearly hundred people. Jimmy has
listened to Hard speak innumerable times because he used to work for him. Their
professional relationship did not end well.
“Election Day is one week from tomorrow,” Hard booms, perspiration running in
rivulets down the side of his broad face. “And on that day we’re going send some new
blood to the United States House of Representatives. We’re going to send a message to
the elites that the same old same old doesn’t cut it any more. We got the other side
running scared now. Well, they can run…” He waits a moment for the expected cheer
that materializes on cue. Jimmy watches as Hard lets it caress him like the supple hands
of a Thai masseuse. The Chief concludes with the inevitable words about the opposition’s
inability to conceal their whereabouts. The appetite for recycled hokum at political rallies
being bottomless, the cheer momentarily reignites, before Hard proclaims, “This is
someone who supports a strong defense, supports a strong dollar – and as a law
penalty.” The crowd loves this and another cheer blooms then subsides back into
percolating anticipation. “It’s a great pleasure to introduce a gal who is gonna kick butt
from here to the other side of this great country. Ladies and gentlemen, she’s hell in high
heels” - more shouts and whoops. This is an image they love, hell, fancy shoes, the cloak
of religion pierced with stilettos neatly summing up the exploitable duality. Then: “Give
it up for Mary Swain.” Hard steps back with a flourish and leads the applause.
She glides to the microphone and Jimmy notes the burnished skin, the blinding smile,
the five hundred dollars worth of blond streaks, fitted red blouse set off against the
matching white linen skirt and jacket that wrap her like cellophane. Then he envisions her
Mary Swain thanks Chief Marvin then turns to the crowd and says, “What a great day
in the American desert.”
Signs wave adorned with her name, cell phones are held skyward, people taking
pictures. Jimmy wonders how any sane person could come out to hear a politician talk on
this scorching afternoon. Breathes deeply, tries to relax. He has been attempting to
meditate lately and to this end has been struggling through books about Buddhism.
Exhausted from another bad night’s sleep, he’s here for a reason: to practice seeing life
Jimmy watches the show for the next twenty minutes as Mary Swain performs with a
mixture of stories, jokes, and fire, pulling, tweaking, and working the crowd into a supine
mass of quivering optimism. Her voice is friendly, homespun. It invites you in, asks you
to sit down and pours you a cup of coffee. It confides in you, says you and I are friends. It
says you, the voter, have an ally as beautiful and shapely as I and together we will share
the bounty with which God has gifted us. She learned this flimflam from her husband, a
master of the high-end grift. Shad Swain became rich selling sub prime mortgages to bad
loan risks then bailed before the con imploded. They met ten years ago when Mary was
working as a stewardess on his Gulfstream 6 and now have four photogenic children.
My opponent went to Washington and forgot about you, the people who sent him.
After I win, we can all forget him, but I won’t forget you, the real Americans!
The real Americans? What is that supposed to mean? Jimmy doesn’t care for Mary
Swain’s brand of sexed-up palaver and he’s as real as any American. But the crowd
devours the red meat, communes with Mary, and then in lieu of a cigarette they
rhythmically chant: ma-RY, ma-RY, ma-RY while her gleaming smile widens. The
candidate, lustrous chestnut mane tumbling over broad shoulders, downshifts to a crinkly
grin, satisfied and sure. She’s saying “We will take this fight to the heart of the beast”
and they’re devouring it, the we, the fight, the beast, each element of the rhetoric bringing
them along with this avatar and her promise of power and release.
Jimmy sees Mary Swain gazing out over the undulating mass of citizens; the white
faces, the brown ones, all of them full-throated despite the afternoon heat thrusting from
the blacktop like a death ray, and hears the call for renewal, prosperity, and faith. Mary
Swain is magnetic, a natural performer and Jimmy catches himself enjoying her act. He
knows she is just a politician selling the usual swill, but it’s hard to take your eyes off this
woman. He marvels at the cool appearance. His armpits are moist with perspiration but
Mary Swain looks dry as the desert air. Her bearing is a runner’s, erect, shoulders back,
chin to the wind. And her legs. Jimmy has never seen legs like that on a politician. Her
hemline stops several inches above her knees, the better to highlight supple calves that
curve into a pair of red pumps. Jimmy figures Mary Swain’s a little younger than he, late
thirties, but spas, trainers, and botox lop ten years off. She looks more like a character in
a video game than a candidate for the United States House of Representatives.
Jimmy observes Arnaldo Escovedo, slicked back black hair and reflector sunglasses,
walking toward him. A middleweight Golden Gloves fighter twenty years ago and now a
police detective on the Desert Hot Springs force, the man still moves lightly on the balls
of his feet. They exchange a collegial nod. “You like her?” Jimmy says. Arnaldo raises an
eyebrow, lets Jimmy know, yeah, he likes her. Jimmy chuckles, asks if he’s on duty and
Arnaldo nods. The job: mingle with the voters, look for suspicious behavior, mixed nuts
that might want to blast their way into the news - make sure nothing untoward happens.
Before he resigned from the force, Jimmy would have pulled this detail, watching the
crowd, on the lookout for the overly excitable or mentally defective. He’s still on alert
Arnaldo asks Jimmy what he’s doing here. No challenge in his tone, only wants to
know.
“Better not let him see me talking to you,” Arnaldo says. He grins at Jimmy and
“Just can’t get enough of Hard Marvin, can you?” Jimmy looks over and sees Cali
Pasco standing next to him. Tight jeans and a white tee shirt hug her slender figure and
she wears a pearl gray lightweight blazer over it to hide the shoulder holster and the
Beretta it contains. The cowboy boots give her another inch of height. Thick brown hair
pulled back in a ponytail that falls through the back of a blue baseball cap makes her look
“Detective Sergeant,” she says. “You want to fight about it?” Playing, a gleam in her
brown eyes.
“I don’t want to get my ass kicked so early in the day.” They always liked each other
when they were colleagues and Cali appreciated that Jimmy never tried to sleep with her
“Hard forced some guy out, I think Jimmy Duke was his name.” Probing with the
“Helps if you’re a girl.” Cali gives him a smile, keeps ambling along the perimeter of
the crowd. He likes how she carries herself, the ease with which she moves, that she can
I was talking to my oldest daughter about what it means to be an American, and you
Jimmy glances to where Hard Marvin is standing, behind the candidate. Sees the man
looking at Mary Swain with the combination of awe and lust that seems to be the effect
she has on males predisposed to her philosophy of a muscular military and no taxes.
Notices Hard is fiddling with his wedding ring like he wants to take it off. Imagines the
Chief is going tantric on Mary Swain in his head as he stands at attention behind her and
Jimmy believes himself to be immune to the candidate’s charms. Mary Swain reminds
him of the popular girls back in high school, batting eyelashes and sweet poison tongues.
It’s not that he dislikes her actively, other than in the way he dislikes all politicians, the
bothers to listen to a politician, it all runs together. America’s Future, God, My Opponent
is against what you love. And Mary Swain seems a little angry, which is something to
which Jimmy does not respond well. He notices the crowd today has become angry, too,
and Mary Swain feeds off them as she launches into her closing, draws herself up to her
full height – five foot nine in heels – and exhorts them to take back the government from
the socialists and atheists and all the un-patriotic operators who have betrayed their
sacred trust because our best days are in front of us and if they vote for her it will be
morning in America again and our nation will reclaim it’s destiny as a beacon in a
darkening world.
God bless you, God bless our troops, and God bless the U.S.A!
Jimmy remains in his position near the riser as the rally breaks up. He has nowhere to
go, figures he’ll see if Hard spots him and whether Hard will say anything if he does.
Mary Swain shaking hands with the sweaty crowd, people taking her picture, shouting
encouragement. Jimmy watching Hard at her side, the sun glinting off his shiny head,
shaking hands, too, smiling, backslapping; working it like someone with something to
prove, someone who wants to matter. A few minutes go by, Jimmy standing his ground,
Mary and Hard still pumping hands. Most of the throng has drifted back to their cars, but
there’s still a scrum of diehards near the front who need their personal hit of the magic.
Jimmy’s waited long enough, pushes in, elbows through. Hard spots him and his smile
freezes in a rictus of alarm. The Chief’s right hand drops to his sidearm, a Glock 9,
Jimmy realizing the man thinks I might be a shooter. And he’s a little disappointed, his
feelings hurt, because Hard, who knows him for godsakes, believes the slightest
possibility exists that he could go Lee Harvey Oswald on Mary Swain. Jimmy wondering
if Hard is actually going to make a move toward him but the big Chief holds his position.
Mary Swain gripping the hand of a retiree in a Hawaiian shirt and a tan baseball cap with
gold stitching that reads U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, the man trembling with excitement and
gratitude. Then Jimmy thrusts his right hand out and the candidate takes it in hers.
“Good luck, Mary,” Jimmy says, holding his left hand away from his body where his
“I hope I have your vote,” she says, her white teeth blinding.
“Oh, sure,” Jimmy says. He notices the slim hand with the French manicure, smells
her cocoanut sunscreen. Up close, the visceral Mary Swain Experience ignites. Jimmy
lets go and just breathes her in for a brief moment, the hair, the perfect skin, and that
infinite smile.
Then blink she moves down the line, and Jimmy snaps out of it instantly. Now he and
Hard are face to face for a moment full to bursting and he thinks, yes, people these days
are gun-toxicated and ready to rock and he knows Hard knows it, sees him twitch, the
man already wound tight as a blasting cap, ready to explode, and Jimmy, with the inborn
mischief of a guy who doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble, can’t help himself. So he
winks. In that moment he senses the other man’s discomfort and revels in his own
enjoyment at having caused it. Jimmy cares how Hard reacts. Wishes he didn’t but, yes,
he cares. He is still a prisoner of the idea that any of this matters. He understands this
kind of delusion is not the way of the dharma. By his reaction to Hard Marvin, Jimmy
knows that freedom from suffering is not imminent. Yet he yearns for freedom. And what
Walking toward his pickup truck, he hears “Uncle Jimmy!” and turns to see Brittany,
the seventeen-year old daughter of his brother Randall. Skinny and vibrant, with an
appealing grin, Jimmy thinks she’d look better without the magenta dye in her shoulder-
length light brown hair but keeps that thought to himself. In her uniform of Converse
sneakers, a plaid skirt with ripped fishnets and a baggy tee shirt with the name of some
band he doesn’t recognize emblazoned across the chest, she is indistinguishable from the
average teenage girl save for the oblong spiral notebook in her hand. Brittany asks him
what he’s doing at the rally and he tells her it’s his duty as a citizen to hear every
candidate’s line of blather. She gazes at him intently when he says this, staring right into
his eyes as if she is not only taking in this information but also parsing it, extrapolating,
and contemplating how it can be used to her advantage. To her uncle, she does not seem
like an ordinary teenager but something more purposeful. It’s slightly unsettling. When
he asks her why she isn’t in class since it’s a Monday morning and the law of the State of
California requires she be there, Brittany informs him that she’s doing a school
assignment. She accepts his offer of a lift back to Palm Springs Academy.
Jimmy drives a blue 2002 Ford pickup with a dented front fender and a busted taillight
he’s been meaning to repair for weeks. Brittany settles into the passenger seat and on the
ride she talks to him about politics (“What kind of freak goes into that line of work?”),
her parents (“kind of annoying”) and the colleges she’s thinking about applying to. Most
of the schools are on the east coast and have fancy pedigrees. But maybe she won’t go to
college at all, she tells him. Her grades are excellent and her board scores, too, but
doesn’t the world belong to the entrepreneurs, the self-starters, new gods of the wild and
relentlessly entertaining American pageant who bend reality to their implacable will?
And they don’t teach those skills in college, do they? Jimmy listens and nods, impressed
with his niece. He drops her off and watches as she walks across the lawn and into the
glass and steel building of the Upper School. Brittany almost makes Jimmy wish he were
a father. Of course, that would mean he’d be yoked to his ex-wife Darleen for the rest of
his life. He knows the kid who’s worth that hasn’t been born.