“My mouth felt dry, but the longer I stared at the little piece of broken pot the
more fascinated I became. Lick it, go on, I thought. It’s just dirt, after all, you
ate about half a pound on your way up here, you ate a pound last night on
the way into camp in that wind. Just do it, he’s staring at you, he’ll think you’re
an idiot if you don’t, my god, doesn’t the man ever blink?”
my companion dispelled the doubt. Sound seemed not to travel well,
as though the air were thick. It fell with a thud without echo and
ended with an abruptness that tricked my memory; I wondered if I
had really heard it or just imagined it.
The pot sherd was less than an inch across and about a quarter-inch
thick. A hint of a ridge ran diagonally up the back where the potter
had failed to completely smooth the coil.
My mouth felt dry, but the longer I stared at the little piece of
broken pot the more fascinated I became. Lick it, go on, I thought. It’s
just dirt, after all, you ate about half a pound on your way up here,
you ate a pound last night on the way into camp in that wind. Just do
it, he’s staring at you, he’ll think you’re an idiot if you don’t, my god,
doesn’t the man ever blink?
Tentatively, my tongue broke through my lips, sticky and chapping
in the February sun. The tip darted out and brushed the sherd, a burst
of chalk and alkali assaulting my nose. I shut my eyes tight and just
went for it, swiping the flat of my tongue over the smooth, slightly
convex front.
I peered at the little fragment. My teeth crushed grit as I tried to
hide my disappointment.
“Didja think a genie was gonna come out?”
I looked at my guide. A wide grin cracked under the overgrown
mustache, making him look a little insane. One eye was opened much
wider than the other. “Lemme see,” he grunted, and I put the sherd
in his outstretched hand.
It had darkened against my tongue, though it was rapidly paling
again as it absorbed my saliva. With the washing a thin black line had
become visible from one side of the triangle to the hypotenuse. That
was all.
“Nice one. ‘Bout 1500, I’d say,” said the archaeologist, holding the
sherd about an inch from his eyeball.
“How can you tell?” I asked, wondering if I was being had, if the
whole thing was just a joke at the expense of the new kid.
“Paint,” came the grunt. “This is juniper. Don’t see that much later
than 1550.” He continued to regard it for a moment, then licked it
himself as I cringed. He continued his scrutiny for a time and then his
eyes wandered to the ground, where hundreds of tiny nondescript
fragments peeked from the soil and the occasional shade of weeds.
The archaeologist sat for a moment, the sherd cradled loosely in his
fingers, seemingly lost in thought. Then he stood abruptly, tossed the
little triangle aside and demanded, “You hydrated?”
“Wha…yessir,” I replied, standing hastily and brushing a cloud of
caliche from my bottom. At least I thought I was, having drunk
insatiably for the past two days. I knew I could never be sure, out
there in the desert, so I wasn’t taking any chances.
“Good,” said the good Doctor. “What time is it?”
I glanced at my watch. “About 10:30,” I replied.
“Good,” said the old man again, regarding me kindly, the hint of a
wry smile playing at the corners of his crow’s feet. “Time for a drink
then.” He rummaged in his pack and brought forth a plastic enema
bottle with the word “Gyn” scrawled in black sharpie on the side.
Catching my look of alarm, he chuckled and explained, “It’s a new one,
don’t worry. They’re flexible, see? Easier on the contents. And the pack
mules.” Another moment’s searching brought forth a pack of powdered
grapefruit juice, government issue. The two were combined in the
enema bottle and shaken vigorously. The Doctor offered it to me, and
I only hesitated a moment before accepting it.
It was warm as bathwater, bitter, and gritty. The gin was cheap and
did not blend well with the grapefruit. I drank deeply, half-turning to
look out over the long mesa sloping gradually away below us. Row on
row of juniper and creosote broke the beige to the far mountains,
which seemed to hover in a pale haze of dust. It was monochrome; it
was silent. I crunched a few grains of grapefruit and caliche in my
molars as I handed the bottle back to the archaeologist.
“Welcome to the desert,” the old man grunted, lifting it to his lips
and taking a few practiced gulps.
I turned again to look at the floor of an extinct sea, ocotillo stirring
in the relentless sunshine like anemones. It’s going to be a long season,
I thought, and a shy little grin crossed my face. I took the bottle back
and drank again, looking forward to it. n
Cenizo
Spring 2020
21