Caleb is as crusty as they come and a hoot when it comes to conversation.
He's been wandering around since New Mexico was a Territory. A real desert relic in the flesh.
Caleb still walks beside his mule, Daisy XXII*, everywhere he goes. Which is wherever he decides to go. Inside or out.
He's always been that way.
*He's out lived a lot of mules.
Caleb ain't nothing in the looks department.
If his bowed legs straddled a wine barrel there would still be space left. White hair so stiff it looks like brush bristles poking straight out.
Once saw him run a blade through his beard to sharpen it so he could cut a carrot to feed Daisy XXII. Had to be. Only way to cut his beard would be with a blow torch or a grinding wheel.
I firmly believe if Caleb ever walked into a wall his beard would snap off.
His nose, besides being beet red, is full of pits. Lord, you would think he had gone hunting with that Dick called Cheney.
Smallest eyes I've ever seen on a person. Like looking at dice sporting snake eyes.
Caleb dresses funny too.
Wears a scuffed up leather flying hat straight out of World War I and adorned with little girl's pink goggles. Leather holes with some pants around them and bright green Ked high tops on his feet.
He still wears Dr. Denton Long Johns that were maybe white once, but now sport a sooty-gray color. His suspenders are made from what is probably horse hair, but everybody is too afraid to ask.
People from all around knows Caleb. Caleb doesn't know anybody and keeps it that way.
Oh, if Caleb sees you meandering around for a few decades, he might give you a grunt or two in passing. He only speaks when he thinks it be necessary. Daisy XXII is another story. Talks to her almost non-stop.
You want a conversation with Caleb, you have to listen to him talking to Daisy XXII, then go from there.
It has been rumored that Caleb spent his youth prospecting for gold and silver. Looking at him and Daisy XXII, you would agree with that assessment. He has a pick and shovel attached to the load Daisy XXII carries on her back.
Caleb always seems to have money, even though he lives in an abandoned gas station that pooped out back in 1961. Daisy XXII uses one of the old service bays. Caleb puts a fresh coat of paint on the place every other year.
Looks like this year he is painting it bright lavender with florescent orange trim. Caleb may not talk to anyone, but his hovel speaks volumes. He must of got his color schemes from visiting across the border in old Mexico. Some of them houses are mighty eye gouging too.
Old Caleb eats every meal at Coot's Grub Pit. He waltzes in with Daisy in tow and plops down in the corner. Daisy XXII just stands beside the table while Caleb chows down. Over the decades it has become a normal site here in Whiz Bang.
One time the State Health Inspector was there when Caleb came in and started to say something to him about Daisy XIV, but Caleb's coach gun stopped the complaint real quick. Coot says health inspectors have never come back to inspect. Just mails him a new permit every year.
Few tourists that stop in at Coot's get a big chuckle seeing Caleb and his mule. Coot said Caleb is good for business. I agree. Food don't taste as good without Daisy watching you eat.
Anyway, I digress.
Three weeks ago I was wandering past Caleb's hovel. He was slapping that hideous orange paint on the trim. Suddenly I heard, "Git over here, woman. I wants to talk."
I looked around and didn't see anyone but Caleb. So, like the dolt I am, I motioned, "Me?" Caleb said, "Of course I mean you, ya dumb broad."
It wasn't what Caleb called me. It was the fact that he talked to me! So, I wandered over and muttered, "Whadda ya want, ya old galoot?"
He smiled. Began telling me that he knew I was the one who brought the baskets of carrots and apples for his Daisy's every "Jebus Eve" (He was referring to Christmas Eve). If Caleb was religious, it was in his own way.
I nodded and blushed. I didn't think he knew it was me.
"Come inside. Wants to ask ya a favor," he whispered.
Inside his hovel was like going into a museum. Clean, orderly and sporting antiques from the days of the old West until the present day. Daisy XXII was in her stall. It was spotless and filled with fresh hay and straw. A fountain fed water to her in a huge ceramic watering trough.
We talked over corn fritters and tea all afternoon. He told me he was dying. Like the desert man he had always been, he was planning to wander into the desert and disappear like a whisper to the wind.
It was his way and deep down, I knew it to be more than appropriate.
Caleb asked me to take care of Daisy XXII until it was her time. I promised I would do so. Said he would leave an "X" painted on the door so I would know he had left. I nodded. Gave him a kiss and we parted.
Six weeks later I saw the "X." I took Daisy XXII to my home and began to care for her. I've never seen a mule sad enough to cry, but they do.
In the late evenings, we both watch the sun set in the West and remember an old cuss named Caleb.
When it comes Daisy XXII's time, I will take her into the West and leave her to find Caleb in her own way.
Just seems right, somehow.