hrend Showcase —25"3~19
an exhibit of Behrend students' expressive thoughts
The Desert
Magician
Southern New Mexico. People don’t normally come here to cause trou
ble. Matter of fact, the crime rate has gone down significantly since the
early 1900’s. I’ve been sheriff in these parts for, oh I don’t know, a good
thirty years, I suppose. I’ve kind of lost track over the last few years. The
desert will do that to you. It’s certainly too bad the Mexicans don’t get that
way. Some say they’re used to it; the heat, the bright, the dehydration.
Frankly, I don’t know how anyone could be used to it, but the locals around
here have come to realize that they are a much happier people. Regardless
if they’re just setting up a stand somewhere just north of the border to sell
self-made treasures or not, they have always had a greater tendency to
have a smile on their faces. I don’t know what it is. I suppose if I was Mex
ican, the peculiarity of the Spanish language would drive me to smile, but
that’s neither here nor there.
The story I was trying to get at was of old Hopper Munson. You know
the grocery store owner over near Brook’s Bakery in Larkin? Hell, Larkin’s
the only moderate form of civilization we got around here; that and this
oid Ford truck of mine. Damnedest thing is Hopper was telling me that
this guy thought he was some sort of magician or something. I ain’t ever
heardnnything like it, myself, but I trust Hopper a wholeJLotfarther than
I could throw him. Around here, trust kind of comes with marriage and
he married Sara, my sister’s oldest. Patrick’s the only one I ever didn’t be
lieve that tradition with, and it’s only ‘cause he married my daughter,
Heather, and left her nothing but a screaming baby in her aim. He stole
her car, her purse, even the damned dog 1 hear. Sad thing about ft is she
doesn’t talk to me anymore, probably because I got a little hot off the collar
and said something along the lines of “you shouldn’t have married him”.
I apologized but she wasn’t having any of it. Maybe it’s all for the best, I
don’t know. I guy can hope, right?
Anyways, I’m getting off my rocker again. I’ve been trying to tell you
about Hopper’s visitor, the guy who thought he was some sort of magic
man? So, Hopper poured me a cup of that good old grocer’s coffee and
sat me down in the stock room. They got a little table back there. I ain’t
ever seen anything like it before, but I paid it no mind. I was more in touch
with the odd stone Hopper was holding. .
“He said the stone ‘uz a piece of a bigger stone," Hopper explained,
the dark brew pouring from pot to cup. "Then, he made some weird chip
munk sort of sound. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but then he threw
the rock at me, or whatever this thing is.”
“He assaulted you?” I questioned. The coffee was hotter than I had ex
pected and 1 felt it trace my esophagus and land bluntly in my stomach.
“No. I dodged it. I’ve always had them Munson reflexes, you know I
that, Sheriff,” he replied, and we had a good laugh. I let him control the j
discussion to an extent. I’d never been erne to pressure a victim, or victor ■
as he was about to expUdn; “And naturally I pulled my double-barrel from j
underthecounter and pointed it right between !
Nathan Carter
sophomore creative writing major
to be continued in the next Showcase j
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