Writin’ with impunity: Today while eating our late breakfast, Cakes wanted bread, so remembering that I’d seen a plastic bag of tortillas in the refrigerator and knowing that she loves her tacos, I thought that I was joking when I asked her if she wanted bread, or a couple of warmed-up tortillas and to my surprise, she opted for the tortillas. I turned the electric stove’s front, left burner on High and in no time the circular, wound, metal burner element was red hot. I threw two tortillas directly on the burner for a few seconds one-after-the-other until warm and then with the dark circles burned into them, they were off for Cakes to enjoy. She looked at the tortillas, laughed and asked me if I had heated them on the burner and I said that I had. I watched her wrap her eggs and bacon in one of the tortillas and take a bite and I remembered something, so I shared a short, brief version of what I remembered with her. In my early twenties, hitch hiking to Montana from Portland, Oregon when I found myself walking near dark, mid-way between Hermiston, Oregon and Pasco, Washington with zero promise of a ride in sight from any direction whatsoever. Famished, exhausted, walking, walking and walking when suddenly, a car appeared from the direction of Pasco and sped past toward Hermiston. Wrong way, but oh how I remember wishing that I were in the vehicle, off my tired, aching feet and resting, safe from the imagined scorpions, spiders and snakes that I was sure lurked beneath every rock and near every clump of sagebrush when suddenly, “SCREECHHHH!” I turned to see the car’s brake lights shining brightly and quickly losing height from the high point, from where the sudden stop had brought the vehicle’s rear end up to. Weaving erratically backwards toward me along the narrow, two-way lanes of blackened pavement, the vehicle backed up and stopped across the road from me. I had seen only one occupant in the vehicle as it went past, so I was not worried and when the driver said hello, I could tell by his voice that he did not have any bad intentions for me; however, he looked tough, dark and strong, but coming from a tough Indian Reservation, his look calmed, rather than alarmed me and I limped to the opened driver’s side window for a better exchange of more good words. His name was Mike Bravo Orozoman (I did not use quotation marks for Bravo out of respect because I do not know if it were a nick or a given name), he was thirty-five years old and he had a Huge, Good Heart. Mike’s wise solution for my hitch hiking predicament consisted of his bringing me back to Hermiston with him, where I would spend the night in his home, with him, his wife and his kids and the next morning he would drive me back, all of the way to Pasco and drop me off on the other side of town, from where I would have a better chance of catching a ride and on to my Montana destination. I agreed and my feet were saved. The first thing that Mike did was to hand me a beer and when we arrived in Hermiston, we stopped at a bar and we had more. We also went visiting what seemed to be all of his cousins evinced by the number of homes that we stopped at, where he introduced me, but I could not tell what a lot of them were saying, because they spoke nothing but Spanish; that did not bother me though, because I trusted my new friend, Mike. The night went well, although I’d learned that Mike was a boxer, an ex-convict and he loved to fight. Three quick, knock down drag out fights at three different locations with who he’d referred to as his “enemies,” of which I’d had to help him with one when others decided to help a friend who Mike was in the process of educating and then there was peace! Following the bar, the late night visits and the fights and back at Mike’s home, of which seemed to be a bit frail, if you know what I mean, he wanted to spar (box) with me, especially after I’d braggingly informed him while we were out and about that I too, was a boxer. We put on the gloves and went a few rounds in front of his small, darkened house and then it was bedtime. The next morning I awoke on a strange couch, covered by what appeared to be a blanket that had been cut in half, with the sounds of small voices chattering an unknown language. I peeked past a squinted eyelid, not sure of where I was and seriously worried that I had drunkenly entered some place that I did not belong. One, two, three little girls and a woman; they were all chattering at once in what I recognized to be Spanish, gathered around an electric stove. Cute. The tallest little girl stood chattering on a chair placed near the stove, laying tortillas on a hot burner one at a time and then quickly removing them to hand to the shortest chattering little girl, who in turn, passed them on to the second tallest chattering little girl, who then placed them atop a stack atop a plate on the table. Something smelled good and I knew that it had to be whatever was in the pot that the woman standing next to the little girl cooking tortillas was stirring. Feeling like a wild animal and hoping to remain anonymous in my feigned sleep, all I wanted was for all of the ladies to leave the room, so that I could find and use the door as an escape route, but nope. Mother Nature called, so hoping that someone would understand me, I acted as if I had just awakened via a stretch and a yawn and then I asked directions to their bathroom. While inside the bathroom I took care of business and then washed my face and hands, where upon my exit I noticed an opened bottle of beer and I remembered. Mike was up and at ‘em and his ladies were hustling and bustling, preparing the table for a meal. Mike spoke Spanish to the woman and she rushed the tallest little girl to follow her with two tortillas, as she brought me a white bowl containing a clear, red liquid filled with vegetables and pieces of floating chicken. “Mexican Chicken Soup,” according to Mike. I ate and appreciated the not only hot from the stove hot, but hot, hot soup like a starving man and then asked for the rest of Mike’s previous evening’s plan to happen and we were off, on to Pasco, Washington where he brought me as promised and I continued along my journey. I had one beer along the way and not because I wanted it, but only to relieve my burning mouth caused by the soup. True story, so if anyone knows, or knows of Mike Bravo Orozoman or of any of his family members of Hermiston, Oregon then please tell him or them that Mike has love and respect from a sworn brother among the Blackfeet Tribe of Montana and thanks. YO! The accompanying YouTube song is of respect and not meant for humor, although the song may appear humorous to some.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Nov 2014 20:55:57 +0000
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