Cutter Cole can be found by follow'n the stone chips to his hovel. He be a man with beefy hands and a heart softer than a tear fall'n on a cloud.
Took a bit a huff'n and puff'n get'n there, but he was sit'n there chip'n away on a letter he be write'n to the President. He's been work'n on it for quite awhile. Thought I'd give it a check to see how he be do'n.
"That be you, She of Two Spirits? Sit that fat butt of yo'rn down. Wine skin be tuck'd under the visitor sit'n rock. Help yourself," he intoned.
"Damn toot'n it be me, Cutter," I said. "You do know there be pencils, ink, pens and paper for such letter write'n. Ever heard 'bout 'puters, email, tweet'n and such?"
"Reckon I have. They be costly. Be temporary. I write so's to last a long time," he growled.
Guess old Cutter had me there. He spent his teen years chip'n the dictionary into stone tablets. Gave hisself a hernia try'n to look up the word predestination one time. Dictionary tablets be lean'n against the back of his hovel.
"Keeps the wall stand'n on that side of his hovel," I thought to myself.
Cutter be fun to watch chip'n words into stone. Reckon he got enough rock dust in his lungs to cough up marbles. He be born to cut stone. He woulda made those kings of Egypt proud if'n he live'd back then, even if'n his "N" always be backward-like. He be dizlexus, I figger.
"Still work'n on writ'n President Obama? You been work'n on it for what? Year or some such?" I asked.
"Yeah. Couple more hands a'time and I'll be sign'n it and ship'n it off to Washington City," he said with a grin, while flick'n a chip of stone off his knee with a thumb that took too many hits over the years. Twisted-like, with a thumbnail that could engrave a diamond.
"You giv'n him hell or whine'n like most do who write him?" I said.
His laugh echo'd off the canyon wall, scare'n the bejebus outta the desert spirits. Then he said, "Wanna read it?" Which I did for sure.
Sol was blaz'n down on the stone tablet, giv'n little shadows deep in each letter he cut with the chisel. His work be fine and purdy. E'cept'n the backward "N's."
Mr. President Obama,
You be a fine man. Smart and all. Nice family too. So, I be writ'n you to ask some questions that be burn'n in my gut.
How come you never talk about poor folk? What did we do to you and those in Washington City, like those middle folks you be yammer'n about everyday and how bad oft they got things? Heck, I gave your campaign four bits, which was a lot for me, but I gave it 'cause I had the Hope you want'd.
Times I don't think you people in Washington City know there be a whole big United States beyond it. Lotsa poor folk live there. Or did you forget on your way to Washington City?
New Mexico, where I be liv'n, has a third of its children go'n to bed hungry 'cause jobs be scarce now. Jobs that be, don't pay enuff to glue a family together, like it used to do back in the gooder days when we be real citizens, 'stead a consumers you talk about a lot now.
Seems to me folks in Washington City hate poor folk. Kinda waste of hate if'n you ask me. Ain't very polite for a smart man like you not to know about us be'n here. Heck, poor folk been lay'n down their lives for Washington City a long time. Maybe time poor folk get to join those middle people in the American dream, ya think?
I apologize for be'n poor, Mr. President. I try to do better all the time, but noth'n better ever happens anymore. Figger you can't let the few go without. Wouldn't be American. Guess that be the way a'things.
Thanks for read'n my letter a'n'all.
"That be some letter, Cutter. Don't you think it be a tad heavy to send to the President?" I ask'd.
"Nope. Gonna have Daisy (village donkey) carry it to Washington City. Figger we both will have a grand time walk'n to the big house," he warbled.
"Um, that be one long walk, Cutter. How you gonna be able to eat and where will you be stay'n every night?" I quipped.
"Don't know, but I don't know from one day to the next how I gonna eat now and I sleep in a dump, so I figger ol' Daisy an me be O.K." He said.
I mull'd what he said over in my mind and then said to him, "I doubt those suits in Washington will allow you to walk a donkey up to the White House. Also don't think President Obama will accept your letter, 'cause it be too heavy."
Cutter scritch'd his whiskers a bit and said, "Lottsa donkeys in Washington City, right? Or you say'n they be jackasses?"
I pat'd him on the shoulder and said, "Washington City belong to rich folks, Cutter. Ain't the peoples city no more. Those people don't like or want riff-raff bother'n 'em much, less'n it be to hold all of us upside down to gather the few pennies that might fall outta our britches, or want a vote so they can short change the people again."
"You be right, She of Two Spirits. But, I be go'n anywho. Asides, I want those NSA spooky fellas to try and file my letter in their big ol' 'putters. Should be a hoot and a half!" Cutter said with a big guffaw.
It be nine months since Cutter and Daisy left for Washington City. He won't be back. Nobody ever returns in one piece from Washington City.