THE MAKING OF AJA by Steely Dan

Steely Dan recorded AJA from January to July in 1976.

THE MAKING OF AJA is a 1999 film of the studio sessions in LA and New York.

The interviews with Walter Becker, Donald Fagen, and the score of studio musicians are priceless insights into one of the best produced LPs of all time.

This evening I passed my landlord AP’s office and my good friend was watching THE MAKING OF AJA. I was hooked within a few minutes and sat through the entire film, enthralled by the magic of creation as well as the multi-tracked texture of music.

To see THE MAKING OF AJA, please go to the following URL

TOMMY RAMONE RIP

There are no more Ramones on Earth.

Tommy Ramones joined his three brothers.

I was lucky enough to catch them in 1976.

On a winter night I was walking up the Bowery. I heard CALIFORNIA SUN from a bar. I walked inside. My life was changed forever.

They were our band.

Here is an excerpt from my punk novel THE END OF MAYBE about that evening.

Gabba Gabba Hey.

Johnny nodded across the avenue to the leather-jacketed crowd underneath a white awning emblazoned with the letters CBGBs. The Palace Hotel next door was a close relative to the Terminal Hotel and Sean glared at his new acquaintance with a twinge of disappointment.

“This is it?”

“What’s outside had nothing to do with what’s inside. This is punk’s opera house.”

The hippie’s disapproval intensified Johnny’s impatience to rip him off and he leapt off the curb to dart through a surge of speeding cars and taxis.

“Last one across the street buys the first round.”

A rattling Checker bore down on Johnny and Sean braced for the soft crunch of steel into a body, except the thin blonde gracefully vaulted across the hood onto the traffic island and dodged two newspaper trucks to safely reach the opposite sidewalk, where he shouted, “I’ll take a Wild Turkey.”

Johnny had challenged death twice in two seconds, but Sean’s mother had cautioned him to walk the other way from any menace to life and limb. He would still be living in the suburbs, if he had followed her instructions, so crossed the Bowery to find Johnny arguing with two men carrying guitars.

“You use the drugs, you have to pay.”

“I owe you nuttin’,” sniveled a crow-haired guitarist, resembling Keith Richard, if the lead guitarist had died instead of Brian Jones.

His pointy rat boots, straight-legged black Levi’s, a stained tuxedo jacket, and a skinny tie knotted loosely on the collar of a rumpled shirt were the fashionable antithesis to Sean’s Frye boots and plaid shirt. The loiterers on the sidewalk were similarly attired in leather jackets or narrow lapel jackets. Sean felt out of place and even more so after Johnny seized the zombie’s guitar.

“Where’s my $50.”

“Hey, I gotta be at Max’s in thirty minutes.” The rocker feebly wrestled for the guitar and Johnny shoved him into a pile of garbage.

“Give me the money and I’ll give you the guitar.”

The onlookers hooted, as if this was a long-running sit-com, and the rocker offered shrilly, “I’ll give you the fifty at Max’s.”

“Wait in line with the other twenty junkies you stiffed today? Fifty or no guitar.”

“Okay, okay.” The skeletal musician forfeited a crumble of bills. “Now gimme my guitar.”

“Been a pleasure doing business.” Johnny released the guitar and the junkie rocker rambled up the Bowery. The thin blonde pocketed the cash and turned to Sean. “This ain’t Kansas or the Emerald City. Trusting no one’s the first rule of this city and the second is always obey the first.”

A taxi halted at the curb and the back door opened for a bleached blonde in a miniskirt, ripped fishnet stockings, and gleaming black high heels straight out of fetish stroke book.

Glowering on the sidewalk the milk-white dominatrix sneered with crooked teeth, “You have a problem with your eyes, caveman?”

Sean stammered, “I haven’t seen anyone dress like you before.”
”You sayin’ I’m a whore?” She flashed sharp fingernails at Sean’s face.

“Sheila, this is my country bumpkin cousin, so cut him some slack.” Johnny stepped between them.

“This is related to you?” The blonde’s laugh sounded like her first of the night.

“Can’t you see the resemblance, Sheila?” Johnny leaned over to Sean’s face.

“I get it. You’re country cousins.” The blonde dominatrix blew the bewildered hippie a kiss and entered the club with a sadistic swagger. When the door shut, Sean asked, “Why she dress so slutty, if she isn’t asking me to look?”

“The girls at CBGBs wear trampy clothing, because they are whores or strippers, who might break your teeth or ask you home for a fuck. I’ll let find out for yourself which is worse.” Johnny opened the thick door and Sean’s eardrums buckled under a subsonic boom. The last band he had heard this loud was Blue Cheer and his guide shouted, “Now hold onto your wig. No more Abba. No more Bread. No more Boz Scaggs. This is the world of tomorrow today.”

The pure power on the stage drew Sean forward and a stringy-haired giant in a yellow construction helmet halted his progress with a meaty hand. “Five dollars.”

Sean dropped $5 before the bearded man at a desk and beelined for the front of the club, where four men in black leather jackets, torn blue jeans, sneakers, and scraggly hair performed a blindingly fast version of CALIFORNIA SUN.

The singer resembling a wigged mantis yelled indecipherable lyrics to the frenzied audience. Each song raced to its end in less than two minutes and Sean unconditionally joined the crowd’s bopping worship of the hard-driving quartet. When the band had exhausted the audience’s energy, the longhaired gnome announced their encore, “PT boat on the way to Havana.”

The heaving mob surged forward and he asked a mulatto teenager with a safety pin stuck in his cheek,

“What’s the name of this band?”

“The Ramones.” The pimply kid rolled his eyes at Sean’s ignorance.

He had never heard of them, but judging from the number of people emulating the band’s get-up, this band had existed for several years.

A minute later the Ramones finished their encore and the jukebox blared a song about Chinese Rocks. Most of the audience surged to a narrow hallway behind the stage and Sean fought his way to the bar, where Johnny handed him a long-necked Bud. He drained the bottle in three gulps and ordered a Wild Turkey from a redheaded bartender wearing a skimpy tube top. After downing the shot he called for another round.

“So how great is this place?” Johnny was pleased by the wad of bills in the hippie’s hand.

Once more GABBA GABBA HEY

BLESS ME FATHER by Peter Nolan Smith

My First Holy Communion and Confirmation of Faith to the Catholic Church took place at a church in Maine in 1960. My mother dressed me in white to symbolize the purity of my soul, although she had me wear a red jacket with a black velvet lapel. I had a fight with my best friend Chaney after the rites.

Not really a fight, but I must have said or done something bad, because I remember his crying and my mother telling me to apologize.

Afterwards I confessed this sin confessed to the parish priest.

“I had a fight with my best friend.”

“That falls under the THOU SHALT NOT KILL COMMANDMENT.” Father Murray had heard worst. “Say one Hail Mary and one Our Father.”

“That’s all.”

“It’s not like you killed anyone.”

I came out of the confessional and said the two prayers.

“What was your penance?” Chaney asked, as we walked home to Falmouth Foresides.

“One Hail Mary and one Our Father”

“Sounds like you got off light,” Chaney said on the church steps.

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t say it enough to him.

New England Tel & Tel was transferring my father to Boston at the end of the school year. Next year I would be attending a Catholic school.

“Forget about it.” Chaney undid his tie.

I did the same.

We were best friends.

A month after my family moved to the South Shore of Boston Chaney drowned in Sebago Lake.

I stopped believing in God, but couldn’t tell that to my parents or nuns without earning the wrath of the believers. At school I studied the Baltimore Catechism and at church I served as an altar boy with a family friend, Ray Howell. Latin was our first foreign language. We went to confession together.

“Bless me father for I have sinned.” My sins were always the same.

Disobeying my parents and taking the Lord’s name in vain.

The penance was always the same too.

“Five Hail Marys and one Our Father.”

“What about you?” I asked Ray.

“I made up things.” He was a good boy.

“Why?” I was eleven.

“Because the pastor can’t believe that I am not without sin.” Ray was ten years old.

“And are you?” My repertoire of swear words was very small.

“I think so.”

“Me too.” I could not recollect Ray ever breaking a Commandment.

By freshman year in high school I had violated eight of them.

Murder and adultery were out of my league, but one of my transgressions was stealing wine from the sacristy. It was sweet. Two slugs gave a good kick. Ray never drank any.

My last time inside a confessional must have on the other side of 1970, although Ray Howell became a priest out of high school and last summer at a family barbecue in Boston the monsignor asked me, “When was your last confession?”

“Long time ago.” My sister and her friends were in the pool.

“You’re still a non-believer?” Ray was wearing the black.

“Yes.” I was in denim shorts and a Red Sox shirt.

He frowned and filled our glasses of wine.

“Think of all your sins.”

“That wouldn’t be easy.” I had done worst than disobeying my parents and taking the Lord’s name in vain in the last court decades.

“Think hard.”

“Yes, Father.” I watched my younger brother cannonball into the pool. His splash created a tsunami.

I was seven years old again.

“Are you sorry?” Ray was serious.

“Yes, Father.” I truly was sorry for most everything, although not cursing at New York Rangers fans or not believing in God.

“Then you are forgiven.”

“What about the Hail Marys and Our Fathers?”

“I think we said enough penance in our childhood. Now drink up. In vino veritas.”

In wine there was truth and Ray Howell was a priest for my own heathen heart.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maximus culpa.” The Latin Mass

I am truly most sorry and I raised my glass. We drank together and he made the Sign of the Cross.

Lightning struck neither of us dead and we clinked glasses.

I hadn’t been so blessed in a long time, but then a wordless confession at a BBQ suited me much better than a dark closet in a church.

In wine there was always truth.

ROUGH ROAD by Peter Nolan Smith

Peru sucked in 1995.

The country was under siege.

The War of Drugs had replaced the War against the Shining Path.

The capitol city Lima was cool, but I had unsuccessfully spent the better part of two days trying to score a bag of cocaine. The airport police had fingered me as a user. They weren’t wrong. An undercover squad had tailed my ventures into the slums. Their obvious presence had scared off any steerers. To the dealers I was either DEA or a fool.

Ms. Carolina didn’t understand my mounting frustration. The golfer pro had been reared in a convent. People like me didn’t frequent the 19th hole at country clubs.

The blonde southern beauty and I had been seeing each other for over five years. her husband was in his late-60s. They had an understanding. Donnie gave his wife space to take trips on her own, so she didn’t feel trapped after twenty years of marriage. Ms. Carolina came back with a smile and the small town doctor had a monthly week of peace and quiet. The arrangement had worked for years, except Ms. Carolina had violated an unspoken tenet of her pact.

She had fallen desperately in love that winter on a ski trip.

While the Ten Commandments had no influence over my soul, I had met the old doctor at a party in New York. Donnie was a good old boy from the tar forests. He helped people black or white and my rule about never sleeping with the wife or girlfriend of someone I respected was stronger than any law from the Bible.

Donnie and his wife were meant for each other and Ms. Carolina deserved better than a nightclub bouncer.


Nothing said an affair was over faster than a coke binge in Peru.

The Lima police refused to cooperate.

On our last night in our seaside hotel I pretended to be asleep. Ms. Carolina cuddled up to me and I mewed with pleasure, as she stroked my skin. Convent girls were tough to refuse in the dark, even in their 40s.

On the third morning I left the hotel and there were no police on the sidewalk. A heavy fog was rolling off the Pacific and I headed over to a plaza in Miraflores, where I noticed several nasty pieces of work hanging on the sidewalk. I approached the one with the best clothing and explained my proposition. I gave him $20 and promised another $80, if he came back.

“Non problema.” The dealer shifted his eyes left and right. “Trente minudos.”

I sat at a cafe and ordered an expresso. The bastard hadn’t shown up by my third. I swore under my breath, thinking I had been ripped off, then spotted the dealer across the plaza. He walked, as if he was carrying the mother lode. We exchanged smiles. My hand went into my pocket. A car screeched to the curb. An undercover squad of ‘tomba’ hit the pavement and threw us against the wall.

“I am screwed.” I muttered several times, but the cops cut us loose.

“Bamba.” The lead detective hefted the bag of powder.

“Bamba?” This word didn’t register in my lexicon of Peruvian slang.

“Fake.” The detective spoke English like he had spent time at a police academy in LA. “You got ripped off. Via con dios.”

I returned to the hotel in a black mood. I was dreaming of snow.

Ms. Carolina and I had been together long enough for her not to question my mood.

A black rental Nissan Sentra was waiting outside. The odometer read 70,000 miles. The steering wheel betrayed the real wear and tear. Lima’s potholes had taken their bite from the suspension, but the coastal highway was smooth as the surface of a frozen Maine lake.

We drove north along the Pacific, taking turns at the wheel. I acted ‘nice’ and put CDs in the stereo. Ms. Carolina liked my music.

The land north of Lima was a desert without houses or vegetation no trees. A few giant chicken farms with millions of chickens pooping out eggs into basket for consumption in the capitol dotted the sand expanse and towns huddled next to streams flowing with water from the glacial melt to the east. According the guide book the Sechuran Desert received close to no rain each year.

The ocean was a dark blue mystery. The Humboldt Current surged south from the Arctic. Balboa had named it ‘Pacific’ as a joke. The waves crushed ships on desolate shores, doldrums starved men to death, and storms sucked armadas to the depths.

I went for a swim at a nameless beach. The cold water stun my skin. Seals surfed the waves. Ms. Carolina took pictures. She was happy. It would have been easy to make her sad, so I kept my mouth shut, as she handed me a towel.

Back on the road Ms. Carolina handed me a Pilsen Callao. The bottle was icy cold and I thanked my passenger.

“You’re a good traveler companion.”

“Is that all, precious?” She only said the words precious to dogs, children, and people who annoyed her.

“Why?” It was a question a man is never supposed to ask of a woman.

“Because there’s also this.” She held up a bag of green leaves and explained with a southern accent. “Coca. I know it’s not what you want, but it’s the best I could do with my limited habla espanol.”

“Okay, you’re a saint too.” I stuck a wad of dried leaves in my cheek. Breaking up was hard to do with a woman this nice.

“That’s what I thought too.” She smiled and joined my predilection for epiphany.

The coca and the beer loosened my tongue. I told her about Pizarro’s conquest of the Incan Empire. His march in 1532 had traversed the coastal wasteland. “His troops numbered less that 200. They headed into the mountains and found the Royal Incan at a place now known as Baños del Inca. For some reason Atahualpa and his army of 80,000 were defeated by a sneak attack on the king. They later garroted the Incan when he didn’t give them more gold.”

“Nice people.” Ms. Carolina loved hearing my shortening versions of history. She was smart enough to absorb the parts that sounded almost true. ‘You know that coca makes you real talky, precious.”

Like Pizarro we left the coast and drove into the mountains. Our destination was Huaraz. The road wound through an arid valley walled by ever-steeper cliffs. We entered the high plain with the eastern horizon blocked by snow-covered mountains. This was the first sight of the Andes for both of us. Ms. Carolina lowered the window of the rented car to admire the sun gleaming off impressive range of peaks.

“How are you feeling?” Traveling in rural Peru was more dangerous than Lima, since the local motorists drove as if they were used to empty roads. They passed on blind corners and sped through switchbacks with deadly intent. Being a defensive driver I anticipated their every stupid move with an almost ESP alacrity.

“Fine.” She sounded a little dreamy.

“Good, the coca makes it easier to breath at this altitude.” We were 3000 meters above sea level, which was higher than most of the Rockies.

“You want me to drive?” She had been behind the wheel most of the way from Lima to Casma.

“No, I’m good.” The surface of the valley road was impeccable, however the uncertainty of the indigenous motorists’ way with the wheel was a test of bravery as much as skill. “You enjoy the view.”

She loved the mountains and we arrived in Huaraz in the late afternoon. Our hotel was cheap, but cheerful and we sat on the roof drinking wine and examining the map for the next day’s travels. Ms. Carolina held THE ROUGH GUIDE TO PERU. She loved reading about where she was to learn the history and geography. The temperature dropped with the setting sun, but we were warm in our alpaca sweaters purchased at the farmers’ market.

“Those mountains are the Cordillera Blanca. About fifty miles north of here a road crosses the Andes and descends into the jungle. The road cuts south. It’s probably dirt and none of it good. I bet fewer than ten westerners travel it.” A couple of years before the trip would have been too dangerous. The Shining Path had ruled the Andean highlands. Their president had been captured by the military and there was no number two to take over the role of leader for the Maoists.

“What are you thinking?” She fluttered through the guide book without finding any references to the region. It was terra incognito.

“Maybe it might take two days from here and back to Lima.” I spit out a gigantic chaw of coca. It hit the tiled roof below us with a splat.

“Then I’m all for it.” Ms. Carolina tried to imitate by projectile gobbing. The green goop rolled down her chin onto her new sweater. Girls from convent schools were terrible at spitting.

“Good thing your sweater is green.” I brushed the dregs from the alpaca with my sleeve. She laughed at the absurdity of this gesture and we clinked glasses to honor the possibilities of tomorrow’s trip.

The Olluquito con charqui accompanied our excellent dinner of lake trout. The waiter hailed from Matibamba. He pointed it on the map. His hometown town was on the other side of the Andes.

“No one goes there. Only people leave.” His eyes clouded with disbelief and then suspicion, as if we might be DEA.

“We’re not the police.” Ms. Carolina had changed into a lovely traditional dress. Her smile reconverted him to our side. She knew how to treat men and bought him a beer. “How’s the road?”

“Road? Malo. Muy malo e mucho peligroso.” He begged us to only visit the twin glacial lakes east of Yungay. “Very beautiful same.”

“Muchos gracias.” She toasted him for braving his fears as well as his compliment. Gringos are never good luck in Latin America.

As we retired to our room, Ms. Carolina hooked her arm with mine. Several piscos reserves had affected my equilibrium. High altitudes played havoc with hard drinking. Now was not the time to say that we were over. I kissed her with the tenderness of a sailor about to sail away from his port and fell into bed as soon as we reached our room. I didn’t have to fake going to sleep.

The dawn sun rose behind the eastern horizon shark teeth rising from marshmallow glaciers. Some of the mountains rose to 6000 meters plus. Their names came from Quechuan. Stone fireplace, hummingbird beak of ice, and the butcher were just a few. Climbing those monster were for experts. Driving was strictly for fools.

Ms. Carolina put on her explorer outfit. The pants and shirt had an excess of pockets. I wore jeans and a leather jacket. This was a road trip and not a safari, then again she was a woman and women like looking good in case they have to get dirty. I put her wide-brimmed hat in the trunk.

“I like that hat.”

“Tough. I’m not traveling with Indiana Jones.”

“Sore sport.” She threw my Red Sox cap in the trunk. “And I’m not traveling with a jock.”

It was a good way to start the morning and we went our separate ways.

I filled the gas tank and had a mechanic check the engine and tires. I hoped that we didn’t need a spare, if we drove slow enough on the rough roads. When I told the mechanic my destination, he wished me luck.

“Mucho Gracias.” His comment reinforced my opinion that crossing the Andes in a rented car was plain old stupid.

Ms. Carolina got provisions for the journey. She had been born in the Adirondacks. Camping in the north woods required planning. The weather killed fools.

“You know I’ve been thinking about this trip.” We had another fifteen days in Peru. This drive might eat two or five.

“Listen you always play that Steppenwolf song for me.” She got in the car and motioned for me to get behind the wheel. AS I snapped on my seatbelt, Ms. Carolina said, “That singer sings ‘looking for adventure and whatever comes our way. I didn’t come here with you to stay at the Holiday Inn and drink chardonnay. Let’s see whatever comes our way. What the worst thing that can happen?”

“We get stuck in a remote town and kidnapped by banditos.”

“I was thinking about something less worst.”

“We get stuck in the remote town and have to tow the car back to Lima.”

“Now that’s not a bad worst.”

We supplemented the coca in our cheeks and I started the car. There is nothing like false courage to make something stupid sound like a good idea.

The road to Yungay was well maintained by work crews. They were happy for the work and good at it. Ms. Carolina had the map on her lap and the guide book in her hands.

“Yungay was destroyed by a glacier avalanche in 1970. Over 70,000 people were killed. The town was buried under ten meters of debris.” She read the facts and I spotted the slide. Twenty-four years later a mile-wide scar marked the slope under Mount Huascarán.

“Looks safe today.” I turned right and the dirt road weaved through the fertile farmlands into a pine forest and then a series of switchbacks. I kept the speed under 25 to give time to avoid potholes and roads. Several battered cars came from the other direction. They were covered with dust. A relic of a bus appeared at a corner. The passengers waved to us. There were no towns at the lakes, so they had to be coming from the other side of the Andes.

“That’s a good sign.”

“What?” Ms. Carolina was studying the valley floor for car wrecks. She suffered slightly from vertigo. Coca was working a miracle to calm her fear of heights. The Sentra squeaked around a hairpin curve and it was my turn to feel the fears.

We rose into the chasm with the sensation of sinking, as the twin giants topped with millennia of snow and ice loomed over the road with a fury restrained by gravity. They were close enough to shiver from the cold trembling off their unattainable summits.

“That cars are coming from where we want to go.”

“Good.” Her lungs were wheezing from the lack of oxygen.

“Are you okay?” I played three hours of streetball every day back in New York. My chest rivaled the width of Henry VIII and he was a fat man. Aided my the coca leaves I was fine.

“A little migraine that’s all.” Ms. Carolina was a sport, but high altitude sickness was no joke.

“If it gets worst let me know.”

The road leveled out for two lakes glistening azure under the high Andean sun. We parked the Nissan by the side of a creek spilling into Laguna Llaganuco. Shredded clouds fingered the cliffs and the sun blistered the lake surface with mirrored flashes of light. I stripped off my clothes and told Ms. Carolina, “I’m going for a swim.”

“It has to be cold.” The water was straight off a glacier.

“Purification rite.” My anti-Catholicism didn’t interfere with my spirituality. I wore my shoes into the water. The beach was water-smoothed stone. I leapt from the shore. The cold was deeper than a plunge into a Bar Harbor beach in March. Ice crackled my capillaries and I stroked back to earth. Ms. Carolina spread a huge towel on the stones. I shuddered for several minutes before regaining the power of speech. She was sitting on a storm-wizened stump of a tree.

“Cold?” She handed me a glass of pisco. Ms. Carolina knew how to treat a man.

Stupid ones too.

“Fucking cold.” I lay on my back.

Ms. Carolina lay next to me. She was warm. We were close to the sun. Ten minutes later I was on my feet. I pointed to the top of the pass.

“Beyond that the unknown.” I dressed quickly in my dry clothes and sat behind the steering wheel. I turned up the heat.

“You want me to drive?” Ms. Carolina was genuinely concerned about my condition.

“No, I’m good.” My hands were shaking from the effects of exposure and I chewed more coca leaves. They weren’t helping. I put the car in drive. “I’ll take it slow.”

I did for the first mile. Several cars passed us. They knew the road and I increased the speed to 30 mph to keep up with them. I looked out the window. The valley of lakes was disappearing under a cloud bank. We were at flight altitude.

“Precious, keep your eye on the road.”

“Yes, boss.” I turned my head to scowl at her. The car scrapped over a rock with a screech of metal. The stench of gas filled the car. Ms. Carolina smelled it too. Something was wrong.

“Damn.”

I got out of the car and lay on the dirt. Gas was spewing from a gash in the tank. My attempts to staunch the flow with electrical tape were failures. I stood up and looked up the road. The pass was obscured by a thick fog. It might be snow.

“We have to turn back. We have a full tank and it should get us back to Yungay. At worst we can roll down the mountain.”

“On the road, I hope.” She lifted her hand. “Just trying to be funny.”

“Ha, ha.” My humor was diminished by the prospect of having the rental car towed back to Lima. I gave up trying to estimate how much that would cost in my head. “That was my bad. I’ll pay whatever it cost.”

“This is not a ‘me’ world, but a ‘we’ world. 50/50.” Ms. Carolina had her moments. “Let’s get going before I have to push us.”

I drove down past the lakes. They were as beautiful the second time as the first. We didn’t stop for photographs. The Nissan rocked through the potholes and shivered across the ruts. The gas meter read half-full. We made Yungay with a quarter tank to spare.

I asked a local about a mechanic. She pointed around the corner. The building was surrounded by wrecks and scavenged hulks. There was no way that I was leaving the Nissan here. The three men in the garage lifted their heads from a V8 block. The oldest man was sealing a crack in between two cylinders with an acetylene torch. He sniffed the air with a knowledgeable nose. It was long and crooked. He turned off the torch.

I stepped out of the car. The boss signed for his young helpers to take a break. They lit up cigarettes and the older man shouted at them in rapid Spanish. Admonished by his tirade they put out the cigarettes.

The older man shook his head and wiped his grimy hands on grimier overalls. His eyes squinted in the bright sunlight like his mind was calculating the price of his solution to my problem. The passenger door opened behind me and his shifted over my shoulder.

“Senora.” The boss bowed his head with a polite deference. Blonde hair the color of the sun was an abnormality in the high Andes. Ms. Carolina was basically an extraterrestrial slumming on Earth and the boss offered her a chair, then explained in passable English, “This not big problema. Road bad. Rock cut tank. I fix. Take out tank. Empty petrol. Seal hole with solder. Turn tank back upside down. Car OK. Good idea.”

“What is plan numero two?” I asked to re-establish my standing as the man here, not Ms. Carolina. It was a futile effort.

“Plan two?” The mechanic smirked at my question. “Plan numero two I go to Lima. Get new tank.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Si mucho caro. Plan numero uno est better.”

“Very good idea. How much?” Carolina got to the point.

The man held up two fingers. I thought $200 was a rip-off, but he smiled and said, “$20.”

“Very good idea.” Ms. Carolina shook his hand. None of his grime came off on her hand. Goddesses were above dirt. The man introduced himself as Chocho. “I like Chocolate.”

“Who doesn’t.” Ms. Carolina told our host that I was her husband. The lie was easier than explaining the truth.

“Bueno.” Chocho ordered beers. The two young man jacked up the Nissan and yanked off the tank, as Ms. Carolina took photos of the mechanic and his children. He laughed hearing about our wanting to see the other side of the mountain.

“Nothing there. No hotels. No beer. Nada. Everyone leave there. Come here or go to Lima.” He clapped his hands and ordered his children to leave the garage, as the young men poured out the gasoline into a plastic bucket. They hauled the empty tank into the courtyard and our new friend advised that we get something to eat.

“Senora, better you not here, if tank go boom.” His fingers flicked up to aid our visualizing his plan # 1 going bad. “Not worry. If go boom. We do plan two.” Te two young men didn’t join his laughter. I didn’t think it was funny, but Ms. Carolina laughed so hard that she swallowed her cud of coca leaves. The wad stuck in her throat. Chocho slapped his palm on her back. She expelled the block across the street. It struck the wall with the intensity of a bazooka shell hitting the side of a Panzer tank.

“I guess I went boom boom.” He joke got a rib-ripping chortle from Chocho and we had a classically Peruvian lunch of cuy chactado and olluco, roasted pig and Andean tubers. along with roasted peppers. After several glasses of pisco Chocho looked at his watch.

“Car finish. You can go now. You go to other side of mountain?”

“No, I think we’ve gone far enough.” A gas tank can only be flipped one time.

Ms. Carolina paid Chocho and tipped the two young boys. $5 was a good day’s pay in this part of Peru. I thanked them for their help with two baseball caps. The three of them waved good-bye, as I pulled out of the garage. Ms. Carlo checked the air with a quick sniff.

“No gas.”

“And they put what they took out back in the tank.” The Nissan had a quarter tank. “So what the plan?”
“Head north to the coast and then back to Lima. Chilbote is a city with two bays. I’m sure they have good fish.”

“Me too, you know I came down here for a reason and it wasn’t a coke binge.” I had to tell her my feelings. The word love was dead on my lips.

“Honey.” Ms. Carolina lifted her hand. “We’ve been together five years. I think I know what goes on in that little head of yours. Not everything, but sometimes you’re easier to read than a comic book.”

“I am.”

“You’re a man. I’m a woman. You’re a comic book. I’m a mystery.” Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but there were no tears, despite the hurt warbling in her voice. “We had a good time. We can still have good times, but only on two conditions.”

“Which are?” My mind shuffled through the possibility of conditions like a card shark.

“No explanations. They don’t change anything and seconds as long as you never introduce me as a ‘friend’, I can live with being an ex-lover.” She caressed my hand. “Can you live with that?”

“I only want to make you happy.”

“You want to make me happy, then give me that bag of coca leaves.”

She stuck a clump of coca in her cheek. I put Tim Hardin’s YANKEE LADY on the stereo. I sang the words and Ms. Carolina joined me on the chorus. The insurmountable mountains paraded down the valley to the sea and the sun dazzled off their peaks. It was a good day to be on the road.

AN ISLAND BEAUTY by Peter Nolan Smith on KINDLE

A movie actor friend once explained the pecking order on an actress’ wish list.

“In the first hour of a party she works the producers, the next thirty minutes are dedicated to the directors, and finally she’ll flirt with leading men, but under no circumstances will be ever go home with a writer. They are bad luck to beauty.”

My friend was right and never more so than during a fashion photo trip to Jamaica in January of 1984.

I was the assistant to a famous photographer.

The blonde actress was breaking into the bright lights.

The money shot was the swimming suit cover of LIFE.

The actress played me like a fool, but in the end I got a good tan, which is never a bad thing for a failed writer in the dead of winter and AN ISLAND BEAUTY is a photo-roman telling my sad tale with words to accompany the images.

To purchase AN ISLAND BEAUTY, please go to this URL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LSXPMYW

Fotos by Peter Nolan Smith and Dustin Pittman.

ps The blonde actress was in BLADERUNNER.