The Woodpeckers of Santa Fe - Short Story by Catfish McDaris

The Woodpeckers of Santa Fe

Short Story

by Catfish McDaris

Porterhouse’s Uncles Jose and Manuel were ornery, but they were master musicians. They didn’t read music, they played by ear. If they heard it it was soon added to their repertoire. Heavy metal, Flamenco, country and western, the blues, rock and roll, they loved it all and wrote their own music also. They played almost all instruments. They’d each been married five times, but their wives couldn’t stand the adoration they received while they were on the road. They drank moonshine they made and sat on their porch, Jose playing guitar and Manuel playing a Mexican harp. They kept goats, chickens, bees, cows, horses, dogs, and cats, peacocks, and any kind of animal they came across in distress. Porterhouse decided he was long overdue for a visit. They seldom saw each other because they were travelling men. They put the jug aside and started pluck and picking their instruments. Porterhouse picked up some drum sticks, pulled up a stool, and turned over three buckets. He picked up the rhythm of his Uncles, they sang in Spanish, he joined them with a few Apache chants. Hammering, tapping, doing a woodpecker stroll, then rubbing a melody from the horse and goat feed buckets, Porterhouse never failed to put a smile on all their faces. They jammed for a good hour, then took turns jumping in a stream. “So, where are ladies?”

Uncle Jose and Manuel looked at each other and laughed. “You go first Manuel.”

Manuel said, “I was on my fifth wife, trying to be the best husband I could. She was a lustful woman, horny all the time. I had a good job, a nice house. I bought her a car, clothes. I didn’t drink too much or smoke much tea. She got a job and dressed nice and wore expensive perfume. One day she left for work and she asked me to drag the Christmas tree to the garbage and remove all the lights from the bushes in the front yard. When I came inside, the small bathroom door was shut. I heard noise coming from there. I opened the door. ‘Hey, don’t you know how to knock?’ What the hell are you doing in my house? ‘Sorry sir, but it was an emergency. I had to poop so bad, I could taste it. I hope you don’t call the cops? Let me finish and I’ll get out of here pronto.’ Hurry your ass up. ‘You don’t have to be nasty about it.’ I heard my electric razor, I looked through the skeleton keyhole. She was shaving the Afro on her vagina. She stuck my wife’s and my toothbrush up her butt. I started beating my head against the door. ‘Did you say something?’ Hurry up, my wife will be here any minute. The black lady burst from the bathroom door stark naked and placed her newly shaved crotch right on my mouth and start passing gas, front and back. At the exact same moment my wife walked in the front door. That was it, lust hit the fan and there will be no number six.”

After Porterhouse and Uncle Jose quit laughing. Uncle Manuel said, “Your turn, brother.”

“My fifth wife had money and I was playing with Carlos Santana. She was impressed, so we married. She exuded lust, she hunched a pole for exercise and mine too. Matilda was her name, she had a cool teenage daughter named Greta. I taught them both some guitar and piano. Greta had a dog and cat and they did not like each other, it was like a rumble in the jungle. The cat was Ali and the dog Foreman. They fought and destroyed furniture and ripped through curtains. My toenails started growing thick and hard, it was almost impossible to trim them. I couldn’t do it with big clippers or garden sheers. I thought about a pedicure but thought that was too sissified for a macho man like me. Greta had dog nail grinders she used on her mutt, I thought just the thing. I waited until everyone was gone and plugged them in and revved them up. I touched my toe, the next thing I know my big toe is airborne flying, spurting blood and my foot is gushing plasma. I’m almost in shock and the dog and cat come to see what all the excitement is about. I’m yelling, I grab a dishtowel and pot holders and staunch the blood from where my toe used to live. It didn’t work well, I thought tourniquet at the ankle. I find my toe; the cat was licking it on the kitchen counter. I grab a frozen bag of corn and a bag of peas and put it between them. Perhaps they can sew it back on. I set down the vegetables with my toe to call for an ambulance. The dog grabs my toe and chews it up and swallows it. The son of a bitch dog got sick and died. I got booted to the curb and I quit the band for a while. My boots didn’t fit right, so Manuel carved me a wooden toe.” 

“You guys are too much,” Porterhouse said with a Santa Fe smile. 

Catfish McDaris has been in many magazines, books, and broadsides. He’s a 30-year small press and 3-year Army artillery veteran, from Albuquerque and Milwaukee. He works in a wig store in a dangerous neighbourhood. Second day on the job, a lady dropped her purse and a loaded 357 rolled out on the floor.