Local liar repatriates

John Schneyer

The words Tucson, Ariz., USA evoked a number of different reactions along the way. Few foreigners had been here, but most had seen pictures, and one Frenchman asked, "What's the name of your horse?" He delivered this question without a grain of irony, and I could not help but play along. Let this be my confessional. I seek forgiveness for having misrepresented Tucson all over the world . "Pardner, my horse's name is Clementine; I call my handgun Lucky; Scarlet and Crystal are my two wives. By the way, wha t's your poodle's name?"

We live in a rather diverse and modernized city, but let us dismiss this fact and reflect upon the stereotypes that exemplify Tucson, Ariz., USA, to the rest of the world. I have discovered that as foreign ambassadors of our city, we Tucsonans are always preceded by the globalized icons of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, or Billy the Kid as they run from the law through the austere Sonoran Desert, shooting up men in black and carousing in brothels with "hussies." Or, we are imagined to be a breed of bow-legge d, rawhide-loving Marlboro men; strong-silent types. The women are Southern Belles partial to floral-print dresses and line-dancing. We are illiterates with drawls thick as molasses.

At first, as a traveler green behind the ears, I was shocked to find that foreigners held preconceptions of savagery about Tucson. I took it upon myself to set the world straight with regard to my homeland. I said things like, Arizona is a lot like Califo rnia. You know . developed, high-tech, multicultural. But it was never long before a Western came on the tube, dubbed into Catalan or some other tongue, shattering my assertion that Arizona was modernized.

People would start in with the same old questions. "How many rattlesnakes do you kill per day?"

"Do most people die of thirst where you live?"

Invariably, this line of questioning would lead to my all-time favorite, "Have you ever killed a man?"

It always seemed downright anti-climactic to present Tucson as eclectic and civilized - a college town - not a frontier town. It was also futile, since listeners only believed what they wanted to, and they wanted the Wild West. Finally, I figured I could give it to 'em.

My Tucson stories were pure shock-value. I developed the outlaw-Marlboro-hick imagery for all it was worth. I unveiled the extent of the "backwardness" of my land to riveted listeners, relying on the symbols of in-breeding and rough poker games. However, my favorite line of exaggeration was the grotesque description of the desert, a severe habitat filled with predators.

Tucsonans, I maintained, lived in constant danger of desert predator attacks. Poised behind rocks and cacti lay teems of rattlesnakes, producing venom and waiting patiently to strike at bare human ankles. Javelina, the semi-domesticated giant rodents, had lost their fear of humankind, and instead, developed a taste for human flesh, especially the tender morsels they picked off the bones of small children. My Gila monster story featured a grueling four-hour surgical removal of the beast from the limb of it s human victim. Often the story would end in tragedy, amputation or death.

One common theme developed in my animal stories. Once a desert predator had its first taste of human flesh, it was hooked for life, devoting itself entirely to the pursuit of said delicacy.

I even ascribed maliciousness to non-sentient desert life. The jumping cholla cactus, for example, propelled its poisonous spines at human targets from great distances. Aging saguaros fell on hikers, pinning them to the ground where the coyotes would soon arrive to ravage them.

My best story, however, featured a fictitious insect I called the Lazlo. This menace, about the size of a tarantula, would wait for its human victim to fall asleep before making its approach. Then, it would come crawling up the leg, in search of orifices to burrow into. When it found an opening it would crawl in. You might imagine that an intrusion of this nature would wake you from even the deepest sleep. However, the Lazlo excreted a fluid which served as a strong topical anesthetic, making its presence imperceptible. The Lazlo was only truly happy inside a human intestine, where it laid eggs and began to colonize. I made Tucson as wild as my listeners wanted it to be.

Earlier, I asked forgiveness for misrepresenting Tucson. I take it back. In fact, I feel at ease in having propagated lies. If I am guilty, it is only of sparking the imaginations of foreign audiences. To exaggerate the severity of our surroundings is the privilege of all Tucsonans, as is giving the finger to any snowbird who misuses the suicide lane. These are just a few consolations for enduring kiln-like heat all summer.

Consider for a moment the Brazilian Amazon, a place which evokes strong images. We think of one-breasted women and piranhas tearing us from limb to limb. As I arrived in the Amazon I was amazed to see people swimming care-free in the river, and piranha on every restaurant lunch menu. Wait a minute. It's supposed to be the other way around! - As for one-breasted women . everyone knows that part is true.

Did I feel slighted because I had received misinformation about the Amazon? Not at all. In fact, I am thankful to the raconteurs of fish-stories and the B-movie directors who spread the mistruths which fueled my interest in the Amazon. This is how I justi fy misrepresenting Tucson.

I came home half-expecting to find 19th century Tombstone in lieu of Tucson, only with more threatening fauna. Although I found nothing of the sort, I was reminded that Tucson is instilled with savagery all its own like the cruising of Speedway Boulevard, Tuesdays at the Outback, etc. For this I am grateful to be home. In every Tucsonan there exists the rudiments of the crude and rustic folks that inhabited this land before us.