Read this at Chynna´s last Sunday. People have asked me to repost it on FB The Great Imagitater A Dotty Story by Russell Rosander The other day, I was sitting leisurely in the old ´71 Landyacht starin´ out the window watchin´ a tiny parota leaf flutter to the ground, when the phone rang. The ringing was coming from under a pile of extremely useful junk I use to decorate my table. I have become more or less ultra-modern in my old age, and mostly use “text messaging”. The reason I switched to “texting” is because it gives me more time to find the damn phone. If it takes me twenty minutes, the message is still there. This doesn’t always work out though. There have been times when someone has texted me and asked me a question. By the time I answered it, the sender had completely forgotten the question and wanted to know what the hell I was talkin´ about. But, alas, many of my old friends have resisted texting, and insist on old fashioned talking on the telephone which requires the phone to be answered immediately. A terrible inconvenience. I suspected the call was from one of these old foggies. By pure luck, I got to the phone and found the right button to answer it before it stopped ringing. I said “Bueno” and heard a bunch of muffled noises and a few clicking sounds, then a woman with a scratchy voice said “I was so surprised when you finally answered, my teeth popped out. I didn’t think you´d make it.” I usually keep a list of handy excuses on the table, but it was probably buried. The last time I got a “talkie” was a couple of months ago. “Well, er, um……” I replied. “Your phone was buried under that pile of crap on your table, wasn’t it?” She interrupted. “How´d you know….Who is this?” I asked. “Never mind me. I´ve come to know quite a bit about you. Dotty´s been showin´ me some of your stories. Not bad. Could use some editing though. How´d you like it if one of ´em was made into a movie?” “How do you know Dotty?” “Me and her go way back.” “Well, which one are you thinkin´ of?” “You haven’t written it yet. Do we have a deal?” “But I don’t know anything about you.” “Talk to Dotty. She´ll fill you in. How about I give you a day to think about and call you back?” “Click”. The dial tone was ringin´ in my ear. “Dotteeeeee!” I yelled out the screen door. My imaginary wife was nappin´ in a bunch of beauty bark under a rose bush with her nose half an inch below a droopin´ blossom. Some rose petals had fallen in her hair. “Uh huh?” She answered. “Do you know any film makers?” “Uh huh.” “Well I just got a phone call from one and she says she knows ya.” “Uh huh.” Dotty was crawlin´ out from under the rose bush. “Where´d the beauty bark come from? I´ve never seen beauty bark in Mexico.” “I thought you put it there.” She said. “I s´pected she´d call sooner or later.” “Well, who is she?” “Oh, she´s an old imaginary friend of mine. She´s real famous. Everybody calls her ´The Great Imagitater´.” With a name like that, she has to be from Idaho. The Famous Potato state is famous for more than potatoes. It has a lot of nut cases too. I´d never heard of The Great Imagitater, but that’s not suprising. I´ve never been a movie buff. Hell, half of my life, I´ve never owned a television set. But the key word here, of course, is imaginary friend. Being imaginary herself, Dotty has a lot of imaginary friends, and, usually, nobody has ever heard of them but her. “She sounded kinda scratchy on the phone.” “That´s because she´s so old. You know how scratchy the voice track sounds in old movies? She made the first one before it became real.” “God! She must be older ´n dirt!” “Uh huh.” Dotty told me more about The Great Imagitater. “She´s particularly fond of slap-stick comedy. Charlie Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy were protoges of hers. She worked with the Marx Brothers and The Three Stooges too. She also told me, she worked with a lot of cartoonists too. I couldn’t figure out how this was goin´ to work out for me, considerin´ how I consider myself such a serious writer and all. The next day, I got another phone call. “Ok.” The scratchy voice said. “Be on the set at 8:30 sharp tomorrow. Dotty will show you where it is……Click.” I didn’t even get a chance to get in a single “But…” I told Dotty about the call. I also told her that I had reservations about the whole thing. “Don’t be silly.” She said. “It´s a great honor to work with The Great Imagitater. “Where is this place we´re supposed to go tomorrow?” “Oh, it´s local. Her sets are always in secret locations ´cause she doesn’t like a lot of tourists and movie buffs getting´ in the way of the action.” “You know, Dotty. She hasn’t said a word to me about money.” “What money? There´s no money in imaginary movies!” “Ahhhhh.” I said. I looked out the screen door and noticed that the light had changed. The sun had moved much farther to the west that I thought it had. This happens a lot when I´m talkin´ to Dotty. Dotty has a way of puttin´ holes in a day. I´ve heard stories about people who have time go missin´ on ´em, only to find out later that their alter-ego had been out on a murderin´ rampage. ´Course, Dotty has been with me the whole while. But imaginary wives make terrible witnesses. They´re nowhere to be found when you need an alibi. The next morning, it was shapin´ up to be a fine, lazy, day in Mexico and I decided that I needed some physical exercise, so I sat down and started writing for a while. Pretty soon, the screen door disappeared and Dotty was with me. She was wearing a pretty señorita outfit and had a red hibiscus flower in her hair. I looked down and noticed that I had on some fancy vaquero duds and we were ridin´ burros. We were ridin´ down a trail and the sun had just come up. The branches of the trees formed an arbor overhead. After a while, my butt started getting´ sore. I´m a skinny dude and don’t have much padding down there. I also had to pee. We whoa´d up the burros and Dotty held my reins while I went into the bushes. After we rested my butt for a while, we got back on the burros and I gave mine a kick in the ribs to get it goin´. It just let out a loud bray and stood there. I tried talkin´ to it, but that didn’t do any good either. Dotty was sittin´ on her burro watchin´. She finally rode over and said, “Hand me your reins.” She wrapped ´em around her saddle horn and got her burro to pull. Mine just sat down on his haunches and wouldn’t move. I got off. My dreams of an Academy Award were fading fast. Then I noticed that my vaquero outfit was equipped with a gun belt and two big pistolas. I got back on, pulled out the pistolas and fired two shots up into the air. I always thought that burros were peaceful types that merely stayed docilely one their side of the fence and “Hee-hawed” every once in a while. The blast nearly broke my eardrums and the burro shot straight up into the air like he was shot outta a cannon. I lost sight of Dotty, because I was preoccupied tryin´ to hold on as we raced down the trail at a hundred miles and hour. I got another idea. If I could get turned around on the saddle, maybe I could jump off the back. I finally got turned around, but I was so scared, I didn’t dare let go of the back of the saddle. I was bouncin´ up and down like a jack hammer on steroids. My brain was getting´ seriously rattled and was turnin´ to mush. That´s about when the saddle started to slip. Next thing I know, I was hangin´ on upside down and backwards underneath the burro. Then somethin´ started slappin´ me in the face. I opened my eyes and saw that it was a huge donkey dick and I screamed and let go. Then I grabbed the donkey dick and it flung me off onto the side of the trail. I hit hard, and it knocked the wind outta me. I sat there gaspin´ for air. I finally got a couple of gulps down and my eyes started to un-cross. There was the burro, standin´ down the trail a little ways, starin´ at me like I was the one who had insulted him! Dotty was comin´ up the trail laughin´ her head off. “Take a little detour to a Tijuana whorehouse, did ya?” I just glared at her. Sometimes her jokes are in just plain bad taste. We heard a car, put-puttin´ up the trail. It came around the bend in a cloud of dust. It was an old Model A Ford. It had vanity license plates that said, Pedro Infante Lives!. An old geezer, who must have been about a hundred ´n eighty pulled up along side of us. He was wearing a fancy sombrero and a shirt with pearl buttons. “Tie your burros onto the bumper, and I´ll give you a lift.” “Buenos dios! My name is Pedro Infante.” He said as we climbed in. “I thought Pedro Infante died back in the 1950´s?” I said. “Yep, but I promised The Great Imagitater I´d make one last movie.” As we drove into the make-believe town, dogs were barkin´ and chickens were squackin´ as they scattered from the path of the car. All the houses were fake, movie front, houses, but old men still sat in front of them and children were playing in the street. We came to the town plaza with a church on one side and a cantina on the other. We pulled up in front of the cantina. It was a dusty town and our throats were dry. We untied the burros and re-tied ´em to the hitchin´ post. We stepped over a guy, either sprawled out dead, or passed out drunk in the doorway. Dotty and I sat down at a table, and Pedro went over to the bar and ordered three sarsaparrillas. The cantinero brought ´em over along with some botanas. Chips with dip, made from imitation crab. Then, The Great Imagitater´s scratchy voice filled the air from some invisible source. I sounded like it was coming from an old fashioned megaphone. “Good. The screen writer showed up. Did you bring the script?” “What script?” I asked. “Why the movie script. What else? You were supposed to be writing it.” “But I haven’t written anything! I didn’t know I….” “Oh well, here then.” A little guy come in from somewhere and handed me a scipt. “Okee-Dooky” he said, and left out the back door. I looked at it. It was in my handwriting and everything that had happened so far in this story was in it! I started to read ahead to see what was going to happen next, when soldier in a 1800´s Mexican army uniform and one of those tall hats walked into the cantina. He came up to Pedro and said, “Señor Infante. I hear the bandito El Vespia is looking for you. He says he is going to keel you.” “Aren´t you going to stop him?” Pedro asked. “Nope. I hate violence. Me and my men are leaving town. You three are hear-by drafted into the Mexican Army. Hope you kill him. Buenos suarte.” He turned and left. “And to think I went through all that trouble to stay out of the army during Viet Nam back in the 60´s.” I said to Dotty and Pedro. I went back to the script. Evidently, we were supposed to save the town from the bad bandito and his gang of desperados. “you know, Dotty?” I said. “I don’t remember writing any of this!” “You have been kinda forgetful lately.” She said. Just then, two chickens hopped over the guy in the doorway and ran around the room clucking their heads off. One of them was attacking my foot and the other had a hold on my pant leg. “Get those chickens out of here!” Yelled the scratchy voice over the megaphone. “There are no chickens in this scene!” The chickens stopped attacking and looked at each other. “Oh wait.” Said the scratchy voice. “your on the wrong set. You´re supposed to be over on lot 19. That´s where the chicken yard is. They´re about to pour the feed into the feed trough. You´re needed for the fight scene that’s supposed to follow, so, hurry up and get over there!” The chickens squawked and fluttered out the door, waking up the drunk guy in the doorway. He found his sombrero and staggered in and flopped into a chair across the room, knocking another over in the process. Pedro turned to Dotty and I. “I think that´s one of El Vespa´s desperados.” He whispered. The desperado squinted one eye and Pedro and then the other. Then he broke into a malevolent grin and his mustache fell off.” “CUT!” The Great Imagitater yelled. The little guy came in though the back door holding up, what looked like, a tube of Super Glue. The desperado grimaced as the little guy stuck the mustache back on his lip. “Okee-dooky!” The little guy chirped as he left. The desperado squinted again at Pedro. His face widened into an evil grin, and he got up, knocking over his chair and scurried out the door. “Tres mas sarsaparrillas , por favor!” Pedro called to the cantinero. Then, he pulled out a deck of Old Maid cards and dealt them around the table. The cantinero brought us our drinks and we started to play. I was havin´ a hard time rememberin´ how the game went, but Dotty clued me along. Then, we heard a growl from outside. “Pedro Infante!” The three of us crowded into the doorway. Across the plaza was a huge, ugly hombre wearing and enormous sombrero and Bandelier’s full of bullets. He wore two huge pistolas. Behind him, were five equally ugly desperados. “El Avespa!” the cantinero gasped and dove down behind the bar. We stepped off the porch when a barrage of gunfire burst from out in left field from a cloud of dust. Everybody turned to see, none other than the bowlegged figure of Yosemite Sam emerge from the cloud with a smokin´ pistol in each hand. He waded over to us and said, “Sorry ahm late, podners,” and we all turned to face the banditos again and assumed gunfighter stances. “Uno!” the bandito yelled. “Dos!” he counted. Then, before he said “tres.”, he drew. “Varmit cheated!” yelled Yosemite. Luckily, the banditos were lousy shots and no one was hit. Soon, everyone had there guns out and was shootin´ except me. Those little shoestring thingys were tied over the tops of mine and I was trying to get them loose. Guns were blazin´ and bullets were flyin´ everywhere. I finally got the damned things untied just as the gunfire stopped. “Were outta bullets!” Dotty yelled. “Avespa´s the only one left and he´s yours.” I looked up and saw five of the desperadoes lyin´ dead on the ground. Then the bandito leader stepped out from behind a barrel. He grinned and snickered at me and stepped out into the mid-day sun. Now we were facing each other. He lifted his huge pistola and slowly took aim. I had barely cleared leather, pullin´ both pistols, when his gun went off. My left hand gun was blasted right out of my hand and I threw both hand up in surrender. My right hand gun flew up in the air doin´ somersaults. I sucked in my gut and the gun fell, right into my drawers. I dove both hand down after it. The ugly bandito was outta bullets and was re-loadin´. I was fumbling around trying to get a grip on the handle. I was staggering around and finally got it. I tried to pull it up, but I couldn´t get both hands and the gun outta my pants at the same time. Then the buttons popped off my fly and I poked the barrel out of the hole and aimed it, best I could, at the bandito. The big, bad bandito had re-loaded his gun, but he didn’t fire. His eyes widened and his mouth flopped open. “Lo siento, Señor.” He gasped. “I didn´t know you had a prosthetic!” He turned and walked towards his horse, mounted and rode away. Pedro Infante let out an ear splittin´ Mexican trill. “Aiy-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi! We done it, amigos! We ran ´´em outta town!” I managed to get my hands outta my pants, one at a time, as well as the gun. All the townspeople were poundin´ us on our backs and cheerin´. Then they started pourin´ bottles of beer over us. It was a terrible waste. They got us up on their shoulders and carried us into the cantina. Yosemite leaned over towards Dotty. “That´ll teach them varmints!” Dotty gave him a kiss and the ends of his mustache uncurled and pointed straight up. The dead desperados all got up and followed us in. A mariachi band started playin´, and there were free drinks for all. Pedro gave Dotty, me and Yosemite Sam a ride into Barra on the way home. We partied on, until Yosemite was getting too tight and Chynna had to stop him from shootin´ holes in the ceiling for the third time. We dropped Yosemite off in the Barrio. Then he drove us the rest of the way to the trailer and said “Adios.” I had a dream that night, that Dotty, me, Pedro and Sam were riding horses over a hill into the sunset. “It´s a wrap!” The scratchy voice of the Great Imagitater called as we rode out of sight.
Posted on: Tue, 13 Aug 2013 20:24:38 +0000
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