When Trigger was passed out she’d burn him with her cigarette. In all, he had a collection of 37 scars freckled down his arms and hands. “Lessons,” as she called them.

“Y’aint got one you didn’t deserve,” she’d say through a throat full of gravel. “…except maybe those three.” Then she’d howl at the moon like a shit-faced wolf gettin its ass ate. She hated wasting a good smoke but made sacrifices for educational purposes. She was thoughtful like that. Each scar told a story, and now Trigger would get lost reminiscing looking at his chewed-up arms like they were constellations.  

The burn near Trigger’s left elbow was for flirting with her best friend. The burn on his left hand was for not mowing the lawn. The burn on his forearm wasn’t for calling her a “fuckin’ tornado,” it was for meaning it. But by far, the one that hurt the most was on his left ring finger. That burn was for slashing her tires so she wouldn’t leave him. Well, she burnt him, left him, set his truck on fire, and Trigger never held her again. That was nine long years ago. Oh how he missed his Arletta Montgomery.  

Along with the scars and torched truck, Arletta left a throbbing ache in Trigger’s shoulder. Through the years, the pulsing pain got louder, more frequent, and sleeping on it, or off of it for that matter, only made it worse. Passing out drunk was the only good sleep he could manage.

But now he was tired as hell and desperate for relief. The ol’ cowboy stood at the trailhead and wound his arm like a pitcher in a bullpen.

Trigger looked at his watch. It was 8:01 AM, time to get moving. He pulled out the plastic bag from his dusty denim pocket, examined the contents and let out a wheeze. The raisin-faced cowboy popped four of the pills in his mouth and chased them down with warm gas-station French roast. His medicine of choice was booze, but lately the pain barking in his left shoulder was biting off more than he could drink away. His stomach dipped and he took out the note from his front pocket. The instructions scribbled down were simple enough:

Take at 8, done by 5.
Follow the trail.
Accept what happens.
Don’t look at your pecker.

Satisfied, Trigger swallowed the remaining pill, grabbed his tattered satchel, and set off down the dirt path. As he limped up the trail, he winced. The pain in the rhythm of his stride reverberated through the earth and spoke to the animals and plants. Bluetails darted from chamisa to yucca. A jackrabbit fled in terror. A turkey vulture mad-dogged from its perch. A horsefly bickered at a sage leaf. Trigger finished his coffee and took his time pissing in the arroyo. He shook more than twice but he didn’t look down. Doctor’s orders. 

Trigger knew he deserved to be deserted. He lied, cheated, and pissed the bed with Arletta in it more than a few times. Had a scar or two to prove it.

Trigger once went five years without telling her “I love you.” Not because he didn’t, he just figured she already knew. No need to beat a dead horse. Trigger also had a nasty habit of leaving dip cups around and disappearing on Arletta’s birthday. He also broke most of his promises. “Goddamn Mr. Mañana, can’t you ever just get something done, right away!” she’d say before loading her pistol and firing warning shots through the screen door. Between Arletta’s abuse and Trigger’s neglect it probably evened out some days. And like the lung tar you get after 25 years of smoking Winstons on a porch with someone, Arletta would always be inside Trigger, if only to slowly choke him to death. 

About an hour later, Trigger climbed over a hill and things quieted down. Nothing moved, nothing rustled, nothing buzzed except every single cell in Trigger’s body. To the West, a dark purple storm cleared its throat and rolled in over the mountains. The rumble’s vibration swept through the hillside and silenced the mesa.

Booming footsteps interrupted the soothing quiet and Trigger startled. He looked up with wide eyes and dilated pupils, but couldn’t place the present company. His eyes focused ten yards ahead and he finally saw her. A stinkbug pounding her feet, kicking up dust, pedal to the fucking medal.

The shiny black bug stopped in front of Trigger’s boots with an urgent message: “The mushrooms just kicked in, partner.”

They laughed and they laughed. Holy hell how they laughed. It turned out the insect was a real great gal. She’d been in the area a while now, lots of lovers, even more kids. They chatted a while and Trigger couldn’t help but marvel at her existence. A species evolved because of its stank. A smell so wretched it cleared the room of all threats, “Although maybe a few friends, too,” she admitted with a chuckle and a wink. She presented her ass-end and offered up a sample of her stuff. Trigger cringed and coughed out of respect. “Sometimes virtue smells like shit,” she said, and left it at that. He caught his breath and they headed their separate ways.

Twenty-nine steps later Trigger discovered a rock and grew re-familiar with the concept of sitting. He squinted hard and the last bite of Fruity Pebbles drifted around in the pale, pink milk of his eyelids. He relaxed and his soul slurped up the hallucinations drip by drip. Aside from cumming between the tits of Debbie Maestas after a Willie Nelson concert in Reno, psychedelic experiences were few and far between for the ol’ maverick. So, he partied in the kaleidoscopic cereal bowl until his shoulder pulsed with another rude awakening. He opened his eyes and continued on.

A few wobbly strides later Trigger stopped. He realized he didn’t know how to walk. He was like a puppet with uneven strings, some had too much slack, others not enough. He was Geppetto’s first draft. Howdy Doody with muscular dystrophy. Trigger dialed into his posture with the most complete form of attention he could manage. He closed his eyes and investigated deeper until his fears were finally confirmed. It was a Jihadist alright, and he threatened to explode at any moment.

Trigger’s instincts were cranked at full blast. He sat on a rock and took off his boots. His socks were next. His bare feet throbbed on top of the soft, warm dirt. He noticed his feet weren’t carrying an even load. The outside toes, feet, and legs were doing all of the heavy lifting. He flexed the inside of his feet and put pressure into his big toes to even himself out. Then he took a slow, mindful step forward.

His left shoulder popped back. His right hip popped forward. His inner left leg line crunched. All ten toe knuckles cracked. A sleeve of Black Cats set off down his spine. A surge of warm, carbonated energy exploded through his body like a shook-up Orange Crush. Emotion rocked him to the core. A cocktail of guilt, shame, and love reverberated through his banged-up body. Once again, the barren streets were flooded with oxygen and the old man was flushed out.  

He hadn’t cried in well over a decade and there was nowhere to hide from the overwhelming honesty drowning his body.

Deep in his bones he knew he could’ve been better to Arletta as the lowlights replaced the empty bowl of breakfast in his eyes. For the next two miles, he staggered slowly up the mountain crying and apologizing into the hot breeze for 25 years of woulda-coulda-shoulda-but-why-the-fuck-didn’t-I’s. 

Trigger reached the top of the mesa. He lifted his hat in thanks and then took a load off. For the next four hours, Trigger continued the auto transfusion of contrition. His tears flushed out a burden each as they burst down in the sand below. Behind him the storm approached and rumbled. Eventually raindrops joined the party and helped soak his surroundings. 

Trigger laughed at a memory of Arletta dancing naked on the hood of a cop car. He remembered the time she shot him with a pellet gun for eating all the mayo. He sobbed at the thought of Arletta spitting in his face. Trigger cracked his back again and belched into the canyon. 

The sun returned, the river went bone dry. Relief set in and Trigger sat taller and breathed in deeper. For the first time in nine years, the tension in his shoulder no longer throbbed.

The Jihadist had fulfilled his divine mission. Pay that man in virgins.

Trigger Montgomery unbuckled his satchel, it was time. The weight of his wife was comforting on his lap. The waiting for the right moment was baffling as hell. He looked over the undulating golden valley below, felt her ashes in his hand, and listened. The air between a crow’s feathers whispered something-or-other. He tried to interpret the drone of a wasp. He read the moving letters in the ant pile. 

He took a small handful of Arletta and threw her down into the canyon below, her ashes disappearing like pepper into a pot of red chili. Trigger’s lip trembled and the cowboy broke down once again. He wept in his crooked hands until his heart no longer felt like a black hole. He put the top back on the urn and returned it to his satchel. Then he walked back down the trail a little bit lighter than he had arrived.

Through the windshield, the heavens shed light onto the shimmering dessert floor of stink bugs, lizards and ashes. The Chevy kicked up dust in the rearview. Trigger took a drag of his smoke and let it crawl back at its own pace.

He looked over to his old lady sitting shotgun and smiled. Maybe mañana.

GRACIAS DE…

My Uncle Pat + Aunt Kathy for everything. And @aubreymarcus, @timferriss, and @mapsnews for promoting plant medicine through the years. Also, thanks to my dog Louis, I love you. RIP.

CREDITS

Intro by @heeksjim, a real fuckin’ gentleman and musical genius.