Continuing the novel in progress…

4. D’kota, a white kid with hippie parents, is one who will make it through the five-year cycle: Another of mine. D’kota is named after a tribe he (or his parents) know little about. Stolen names from stolen lands and that legacy keeps on taking, doesn’t it? I can’t use his given name, it’s an insult to my friends on the pueblo over the way and so we call him Toka because he is, does, and forever will toke on the smoke. Toka is not one for the vaping fad.

He nods as we head inside for coffee, mine abandoned at home. I need a boost and Toka has the best brew by far. He’s a roaster, a baker, and a chatty one, good for the gossip of who’s in town and who needs to go.

“Hey, Mayor,” he greets me, wrapping a towel around his ample torso. “The usual?”

Ding nods, saying, “Me too. Me too. The usual. What is the usual?”

Toka pulls open the oven in back. We can see everything from the front room, it’s an open plan building, very modern in some eyes but I remember when we’d called these shotguns, in one door and out the other. Either way, Ding and I claim stools at the big window facing Main Street. Behind us, the bakery and café fill with the smells of fresh croissants, strong coffee, sugar, vanilla, and bread fresh and still warm. Pleasant. Reminds me of living in Spain or was that Paris? It’s been so long that the details are hazy, and well, my memory’s shot. I’m more of a here and now kind of a Mayor. Yes, Toka was right to call me that. It’s unofficial yet universally agreed that given my experiences, my time here in town, the family background etc., I am the Mayor. Or Chief. Or Officer. Or the Crazy Lady in the Stonehouse. More roles pop up in the annual meetings, often the long-lasting locals give me the nod and the latest job. It’s good to be busy.

Ding stares. He’s not a talker until after 11.18 am. Regular as clockwork he is, and so that’s when I need to be back home and alone, or I’ll be undone by the flash flood of words and ideas and stories and poetry and who knows what else? I’ve been pretty good about avoiding my friend at certain times of the day. Although we do need to talk business. Toka could help us too. That’s what we need to decide, who’s next and how will we do it?

5. “What about O. Fifth? She should take part in the decision, she’s been wanting to, right?”

Toka sets down two full mugs of creamy coffees, a plate of croissants and a pat of butter. And a stack of napkins for Ding. “Can’t we ask her?”

Oona Fifth II is her full name, unfortunately for her, but it has a ring to it. No one forgets Oona. Mind you, she is 6’2, solidly built, with a buzzed afro, light skin, and the widest most sweetest amber eyes that melt my corny heart each time I make her laugh – which is often. We’re a good team. The best.

I nod agreement with Toka, but my mouth is full, and I don’t want to waste any crumbs. I’m hungry. The croissant’s perfect.

Outside, Master Tubs heads off to work in his nice new Range Rover that’s not touched tires to dirt in the whole time we’ve known him, five months. We usually give newcomers a good length of time for a trial and he’s had his initial allotment. The three of us watch as he passes by, breaking the 20-mph rule posted on the end of town, next to the one saying Dead End, No Way Out, and Welcome to the Cullingstown!

Ding reaches for another pastry, oblivious of the looks Toka gives him because of the mess made underfoot, puddles of dripped coffee, a splat of butter that missed the plate, and a dropped mouthful. I shake my head at Toka and he takes a deep breath. It takes a while; he truly is a magnificent specimen of a twenty-three-year-old. Broad shoulders, thick neck, sweat-stained shirt, clean towel as apron over baggy shorts. His hair is long enough to fall into his eyes as needed, shy people hide in various ways. His mouth has a slack grin most of the time. His green eyes squint in full sun. And his hands are strong if stained by the cooking and feeding and smoking and growing. He’s going to last here. I’m glad. I like the lad.

“We could. She’s been out of town herself though. Why do you two keep leaving us?” Toka’s not been anywhere in his short life, poor kid. I envy the innocence of those who stay at home, satisfied, content with their contained small lives. They’re the ones the tourists notice first, the locals engrained in the streets of our mountain village, tucked away at the end of a little highway known as Silly Mountain Road, one that’s full of music and art and stories and interesting people. That’s what they tell us, “Oh what a delight!” and “I could live here!”

Yes, but for how long is what I’d like to respond to them but I don’t, instead I ask Toka, “Is O. Fifth back then? I’ve not seen her.”

He nods, refilling our mugs. “Back last night. She came by earlier this morning as she’s out of groceries, starving she said, but isn’t she always?”

We tip our mugs in agreement.

“Well, she said she’d be home for a few weeks this time. Some project she can follow up on at home on that old mainframe computer of hers. I offered her my Mac, it’s only two years old, but you know her. Ms. Independent.”

More nods.

“Next stop then?” I ask Ding.

“Yep.”

We pay up, or rather I do. DIng grabs his can and heads outside. I rinse off my mug and plate out in the kitchen as Toka sweeps up around the stools. And off we go. Next stop then. Our usual morning rounds.

6. At the edge of town we find only one dog waiting. She’s a golden retriever by the look of it, but short-legged like a basset hound. I walk up to her and hold out my left hand in greeting. She sniffs and wags. She glances at Ding and then really wags. He grins at me in surprise. Most dogs avoid him because of the lingering fumes of gasoline.

I take a seat on one of the rocks we’ve stacked at the signs of warning and welcome. The view from here is limited yet satisfying as down to the left of me is a deep canyon full of cottonwoods and native grasses. In summer, it’s a lush greenbelt to the south of town. We all head down there during the clammy heatwaves, finding spots along the sandy and shady bottom where we can stretch out in the four inches of clear water that trickles year-round. It looks easy to get to but most tourists give up a third of the way down and we never share the information with them. We’re protective of what’s ours.

The dog sits near me and stares into my eyes with a question, need, or hope perhaps. She must have heard the rumors and come to find a home with us. Yes, this is a dog town.

“You are fixed?” I ask her.

She blinks and wags, then asks me, “do you want to check?” and rolls over to show me the tattoo on her abdomen that the vets make after digging around inside the females. I touch my fingers to the scar and see that it’s fairly recent. I ruffle her fur, and she sits back up, claiming a spot in the sun, warming herself, patient. Her tummy rumbles.

“Can we take her?” Ding likes dogs, mostly, and his eyes are focused on her.

She looks underfed, a slender young lady with floppy ears, hips that stick out, and a scruffy tail. She’d look great with a few more pounds on her.

He doesn’t know how to talk to dogs, or I should say, he doesn’t know how to listen.

“Yes. I think so. Do you want to stay?” I ask the dog. “There are rules, you know. We have to get along, no agressive behavior allowed.”

“KD! She hasn’t a mean bone in her body. Don’t be horrible. You can stay.”

“I’d love to,” replied the dog, blinking at my friend.

Ding blushes. I go over the basics of the jobs we all have, human and canine, setting out the trial timeline for fitting in. She wags in agreement, saying nothing.

Ding turns to me, “She can stay, can’t she? I’ll show her around, if you want? If you’re going over to Oona’s? It’s best she doesn’t go see all those cats, not yet, and Oona, well, yes, Oona…”

Ding’s right. O. Fifth and I disagree on the number of dogs and cats of town. It’s our one point of contention but we’re working out the details constantly and nothing bad’s happened.

“It’s fine by me. Do you want to go up to my place with her, settle her in, greet the others on the porch? There’s treats in the box at the steps. You know the routine.”

“Can I take my can?”

I grin and nod. He picks it up, whistles once, and the dog stands.

“What’s your name then, lass?” I ask her.

The dog shrugs. “Fluffy, but it’s not a name I like.”

“What’s she say, KD?”

“That she might change it.”

“Oh. Right,” said Ding. He picks up his gas can. With a smile, he and Former-Fluffy walk back into town, cutting behind Toka’s and up the mountain path towards mine. I lie back in the sun and fall asleep. It’s a hard life being Mayor.