Archive | 2:26 am

All the Pretty Kyles

22 Jul

I didn’t post anything on Saturday. That was my first Saturday to not post since my blog’s inception in early 1998. I was busy working on a ranch across the border in Mexico. You see, I reread All the Pretty Horses last week. This book filled me with vigor for the outdoors, the southern sun, and calling jeans “trousers.”

The ranch has been around for hundreds of years, but it’s anything but antiquated. It’s an extremely well-kept ranch with a good mix of old with new. The hoses are made of stucco with reddish stone shingles. So nice. I take a moment and think about HGTV. Then, I meet with the hacendado, the owner of the ranch.

“Hola.” I say

“Hola, como estás?” He asks.

“Estoy bien.”

“We may speak in English if you’d like” the hacendado says.

“Very well. Thanks for having me out on your ranch today. I really appreciate you inviting me out here.”

The hacendado looks at me strangely. “There was no invitation. You were found by some of my vaqueros asleep by our well. You were covered in alcohol and black beans. You were wearing a woman’s clothes.” I forgot that me and my editor got pretty hammered the night before in a city east of La Vega. The editor made out with a man. [Editor’s Note: I did not.] The editor held hands with a man that called himself Ramon and wore frilly clothes. [Editor’s Note: Stop. My wife reads this.] The editor said that his wife was a big fat burro and that she doesn’t have enough mustache. [Editor’s Note: He’s lying honey, I promise.]

“How long have you owned this ranch?” I ask the hacendado.

“Oh” He pauses and leans back. A small, nostalgic grin spreads across his face. “My family has had this ranch for almost two hundred years. It is very important to pass things onto your children, and they to their children. Do you believe this is the truth?”

I have fallen asleep. The hacendado clears his throat.

“Wha! Jeez, sorry. So, how long have you owned this ranch?” I ask.

“Almost two hundred years.”

“That’s a long time. What is the most valuable product you export: the cattle or the dressing?”

The hacendado looks at me cockeyed. “Dressing?”

“The ranch dressing.” At this the hacendado laughs heartily.

“What’s funny? This is a ranch. You should make ranch dressing. I want some. On this salad, right here.” I reveal a large bowl full of a variety of vegetables.

“Where did you get that salad?”

“Doesn’t matter. Where’s the dressing?”

“I…we don’t make ranch dressing.” He pauses and shifts in his seat. “So, I suppose the most valuable product would be the cattle. I believe that the greatest wealth a man can have is the wealth he gets from the land under his feet.”

“I believe wealth can come from whatever you’re passionate about.” I sound smart.

“This is a good point.”

“Tomatoes, tomates.” I say. The hacendado smiles and nods his head.

“Tomatoes, tomates.” He replies.

“Potatoes, baños.” I say.

“I think I’m losing you now.”

“Can we go look at the ranch?” I ask excitedly.

“Yes, of course. But, I feel maybe we get you into a man’s clothes first.” I look down and see that I’m still wearing a dress. I think I can see my junk.

“Sounds good.”

After I change, we go out to the stables to look at the horses. On the way to the door I ask the hacendado where they make the ranch dressing. He laughs politely and looks over at me. I’m not smiling. I’m starting to think this ranch sucks. We enter the stables and I speak to the gerente, or manager, of the stables. The horses are of varying sizes, colors, and breeds–all healthy, all fine specimens.

“These are beautiful horses.” I say, doing a thumbs up.

“Ah, gracias.” The gerente responds.

I reach out and smack one of the horses on the hind quarters to illustrate how strong they look. The horse is startled and kicks the gerente into a pile of lumber. He doesn’t get up for a long time.

“Never stand behind a horse.” I say as I shrug my shoulders.

I’m asked to leave and am almost immediately escorted from the ranch. As I leave I see my editor apologizing profusely to the hacendado handing him release forms. He might of also been hitting on him. [Editor’s Note: My wife just called me.]

I love Mexico.

The End.

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