Day Out of Days by Sam Shepard Page A

plaza of bewildered Mexican citizens, some of whom had never seen a white man and had no notion of anywhere called “The United States of America”: “I have come amongst you by the orders of my government, to take possession of your country, and extend over it the laws of the United States.” After a long list of reasonswhy this idea should be appealing, not the least of which was offering better policing than the Mexican government could provide against the savage raids of the Navajo, he capped the whole thing off with this blunt threat: “He who … is found in arms against me, I will hang.”
    From my second-story window of the historic hotel where the likes of Buffalo Bill and Teddy Roosevelt had laid their heads and dreamed their dreams, the plaza is completely empty now and silent. Only the crows strutting in snow. My cell phone glows green on the little round table beside the bed. Downstairs there’s a loud man in the lobby bar. I’ve encountered him before and I avoid the bar now because of him. His name is Lorenzo. That’s the way he introduces himself. “Lorenzo.” No handshake, just the name. There’s good reason to believe that Lorenzo has had his mind shattered by methamphetamine and various other destructive powders. When he smiles at you it has an intrinsically malicious bent as though slitting your throat would be as simple as starting a car. Like some dogs, you don’t want to catch his eye.
    Parked directly in front of the old hotel is a giant-wheeled pickup truck that looks like one of those Tonka Toys except it has a dead mountain lion strapped with black bungees across the hood. Its mouth and yellow eyes are wide open. There’s very little blood. Inside the cab of the truck two crossbred coonhounds are barking savagely and slashing at the window glass as though it might be their own reflections that have triggered their fury. Two fiddle players (I don’t know where they’ve come from; everything just seems to appear) are playing in a big open brick room at the back of the hotel. No furniture, no plants, just a big empty room. They play in the old Appalachian Mountain style with fiddles braced against their hip bones and laid flat so the bows work at about waist level, giving them an odd detachment. They seem to have no interest in an audience and that’s good because there isn’t one. People (tourists?) stroll through the lobby and peek into the empty brick room then stroll on. I don’t know if the hotel has hired thesefiddle players or what. Now Lorenzo the Madman is suddenly screaming from the bar. He’s screaming about football; something he’s just witnessed on TV. A referee deserves to die. A huge athletic man on the bar stool next to Lorenzo is the owner of the pickup parked outside. He’s a professional lion hunter, hired by the government to keep them thinned out and appease the surrounding ranchers. The lion hunter has a Mohican haircut and a turquoise earring. He’s married to the plump bartender who speaks with a thick Australian accent and has a flamboyant way of drafting a Guinness. The lion hunter is in agreement with Lorenzo about the offending referee, ratcheting up Lorenzo’s impotent violence. The willowy cocktail waitress is making every effort to be courteous and efficient as she weaves her way through the mayhem. Lorenzo screams and drools. She pretends that everything is absolutely normal. She has such innocent country eyes, a Mormon ponytail that bounces. I don’t know where she’s come from or how she arrived in this little corner of Hell but she won’t last long. She keeps coming over to my table and asking me if everything’s all right, as though I might be able to reassure her that the world is not coming to an end. “Yes,” I tell her. “Everything’s fine. It’s just history running its course.” She smiles sweetly and flees.

Nauvoo, Illinois
    Site of the Mormon exodus to Utah. Seventy thousand of them crossed the wide Mississippi here in 1846,