The Interview
by Danielle Gallo
J
ohn licked his first potsherd just
downhill from a midden that
looked like just another beige
wash, even when you were standing
right on top of it. It was just a shallow
arroyo, hardly that even, more like a
crease on the desert, differentiated only
by a depth of a few inches and a slight-
ly greater prevalence of smooth round
stones than the beige to either side of it.
“Just lick it. Tastes good.” The mus-
tachioed man crouching in the paltry
shade of a scraggly cedar had a habit of
grunting his monosyllables. He was
swathed head-to-toe in loose clothing
except his feet, which were seated pre-
cariously in flip flops. Every inch of
him, from the bandana tied under his
chin to the frayed cuffs of his generic
cargo pants, bore a layer of caliche dust
so thick it cracked in the creases of his
elbows and knees. His hat was felt,
shapeless, and stained black from the
brim to halfway up the crown, the
sweat even now soaking through the
dust, making a wide slick band of clay
the color of laundromat curtains, circa
1980. He had clearly gone native…or
whatever one goes after too many lin-
gual assaults on ancient artifacts.
John held the little triangle of pottery
in two fingers and hesitated. The
silence was a pressure on his eardrums,
disorienting him, making him wonder
if he were going deaf until a crunch of
stones under the feet of his companion
dispelled the doubt. Sound seemed not
to travel well here, as though the air
were thick. It fell with a thud without
echo and ended with an abruptness
that tricked his memory; he wondered
anew if he had really heard it or just
imagined it.
The potsherd 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.
His mouth felt dry, but the longer he
stared at the little piece of broken pot
10
Cenizo
the more fascinated he
became. Lick it, go on, he
thought. It’s just dirt, after
all, you ate about half a
pound on your way up
here, wheezing and puff-
ing you fat bastard, you ate
a pound last night on the
way into camp in that
wind. Just do it, he’s star-
ing at you, he’ll think
you’re a cidiot if you don’t,
my god, doesn’t the man
ever blink?
Tentatively, his tongue
broke through his lips,
sticky and chapping in the
February sun. The tip
darted out and brushed
the sherd, a burst of chalk
and alkali assaulting his
nose. He shut his eyes tight
and just went for it, swiping the flat of
his tongue over the smooth, slightly
convex front. He peered at the little
fragment. His teeth crushed grit as he
tried to hide his disappointment.
“Didja think a genie was gonna
come out?”
John looked at his guide. A wide grin
cracked under the overgrown mus-
tache, making him look rather insane.
One eye was opened much wider than
the other. “Lemme see,” he grunted,
and John put the sherd in his out-
stretched hand.
It had darkened against John’s
tongue, though it was rapidly paling
again as it absorbed his 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?” John asked,
wondering if he was being had, if the
whole thing was just a joke at the
expense of the chubby new kid from
Virginia.
Fourth Quarter 2015
the boy 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 the boy’s 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, govern-
Photo by John Seebach, courtesy Center for Big Bend Studies
ment issue. The two
“Paint,” came the grunt. “Don’t see
were combined in the enema bottle
that much later than 1550.” He con-
and shaken vigorously. The doctor
tinued to regard it for a moment, then
offered it to John, who only hesitated a
licked it himself as John cringed. He
moment before accepting it.
continued his scrutiny for a time and
It was warm as bathwater, bitter,
then his eyes wandered to the ground,
and gritty. The gin was cheap and did
where hundreds of tiny nondescript
not blend well with the grapefruit. He
fragments peeked from the soil and the
drank deeply, half-turning to look out
occasional shade of weeds. The
over the long mesa sloping gradually
archaeologist sat for a moment, the
away below them. Row on row of
sherd cradled loosely in his fingers,
cedar and creosote broke the beige to
seemingly lost in thought. Then he
the far mountains, which seemed to
placed it gently back into its little
hover in a pale haze of dust. It was
caliche bed, stood abruptly and
monochrome; it was silent. He
demanded, “You hydrated?”
crunched a few grains of grapefruit and
“Wha…yessir,” John replied, stand-
caliche in his molars as he handed the
ing hastily and brushing a cloud of
bottle back to the archaeologist.
caliche from his bottom. At least he
“Welcome to the desert,” the old
thought he was, having drunk insa-
man grunted, lifting it to his lips and
tiably for the past two days. His moth-
taking a few practiced gulps. John
er had told him he could never be sure,
turned again to look at the floor of an
out there in the desert, so he wasn’t tak-
extinct sea, ocotillo stirring in the
ing any chances.
relentless sunshine like anemones.
“Good,” said the good doctor.
It’s going to be a long season, he
“What time is it?”
thought, and a shy little grin crossed his
John glanced at his watch. “About
face. He took the bottle back and drank
10:30,” he replied.
again, looking forward to it.
“Good,” said the old man, regarding