Part 4: 2 - Traveler's Halo
2022, Caleb Allen stops at a coffee shop on his Southwest tour
Things That Can’t Be Broken is a novel presented as a live draft, one chapter every week.
Nine-year-old Dani makes a fervent promise that there will always be horses in her life, so when she finds out her next-door neighbor won a scholarship to an exclusive horsemanship program, she vows to win one too. She never gets the chance—but her short life has a lasting effect on a community.
Last week: Part 4: 1 - Headphones • 2019, Kiko meets Rebecca Smith
Part 4 | This Storm is Called Progress
2 - Traveler’s Halo
Caleb Allen
March 10, 2022
Sedona, Arizona
Caleb pulled the wool beanie low over his ears against the dry chill of the Sedona morning. Strong hot coffee beaconed from the shop his phone promised at the top of the hill. It had been a short night. The evening before punctuated by Mam’s call, begging him to visit. The guilt of his reluctance put an edge on his thoughts that went beyond the lack of sleep.
He had been catching up with his sound-engineer buddy, Joe, until 2 AM. But once the sun hit his motel room window it didn’t matter, Caleb was up. It was ingrained in him. Growing up, his parents were always awake at dawn and out the door. It wasn’t such a bad thing. There was no time to waste, but coffee was essential.
It would be another full day to practice and write. He had some studio time with Joe booked for tonight, and prep for dinner performances Friday and Saturday. This week it was Sedona, next week would be Phoenix, then Tucson, and on to New Mexico after that, doing a full loop through Southern Colorado, Utah and back around to SoCal and through Vegas. He would finish the season right here where it started and hopefully see his audience increase—that was the plan, anyway.
His career wasn’t where he had expected it would be by now. By this time, he thought there would be more, more recognition, more money. . . A lot more. It seemed like his dream was in line for lift off until COVID hit and everything shut down. It tore a big hole in his savings—the waiting killed his momentum. Or maybe that was just an excuse. Maybe he hadn’t written the right song yet, or maybe he hadn’t made the right connections.
At the top of the hill, Caleb strode across the parking lot and pushed open the glass door at the Red Rocks Coffee Shop. The warm air and awakening aroma of coffee swept over him; he breathed it deeply. Ah. This is the place.
His glance moved across the countertop toward the menu that hung on the wall behind it, until it was snagged by an image—a coyote, but not howling in profile like you always see. It faced front, its mouth wide and full of teeth, which somehow came across as laughing. The coyote overlapped the left side of a full moon on a the curve of a feminine brown shoulder. A profile of a crow on a branch, also mouth wide in an apparent laugh, overlapped to the right side of the same moon. Its body and any other details disappeared under her sleeveless shirt. Shiny black hair pulled up and twirled away from a slender neck and smoothly carved cheekbone, unadorned. When her dark brown eyes turned to him, a jolt of electricity dipped low in his belly and went straight down his spine.
She said, “What can I get you?”
But Caleb wasn’t interested in coffee anymore. He flicked his eyes away to the menu again. “Uhh. . .” There were letters there piled up in rows, but they no longer held any meaning.
Two people walked in behind him.
Coyote-shoulder’s smile was bright when she said, “Our dark roast is best if you like it strong.”
He was relieved at the suggestion and finally found his voice, “Aye, the dark then. Large, with room for cream, please.”
“Got it. What’s your name?” She asked.
“Caleb Allen,” he said, unwarranted hope in his eyes.
“Caleb?” She asked again.
He shook his head slightly at himself as she paused with her pen. “Aye, Caleb.”
Caleb stood stunned for a moment after tucking his card back in his wallet, until he noticed the guy waiting behind him. Moving aside, he looked around the room pretending nonchalance.
What just happened? Settle down Caleb. She was just taking your order—ye idjit.
His eyes lit on a painting on the wall. He studied it while willing his heart to slow. It was a portrait of a young blonde woman made up in a quasi-native style. The white feathers in her hair were tipped in red, stabbing at high clouds in the bright blue sky. A white square next to the painting read, “Sedona Persona”, by Haséyá’ Tsosie, $500. He wondered how often a painting like that sold in a little coffee shop like this. But it was Sedona after all, there would be plenty of wealthy new-age tourists.
By the time Coyote-shoulder called his name, Caleb’s mind was back in control. He saw the name tag she wore. Haseya. It must be her painting. He gave her a friendly smile with a cordial wave when she glanced up from helping the next customer, then pushed open the door and braced for the cold outside.
That evening, he confessed to Joe, “I cannae get her out of my mind.”
He didn’t mention that he had Googled her name and learned, among other things, that she was probably the only person with that name over the last several decades, maybe the only one ever.
“They call that chemistry, my friend,” said Joe.
“Chemistry,” Caleb said, doubtfully.
“How did you meet her?” Joe asked.
“I didn’t,” said Caleb. “I mean, I bought a coffee. She wrote my name on the cup.”
“So, she knows your name.” Joe’s inflection suggested that was enough, as if he were the Caleb Allen.
Caleb pulled his guitar from its case.
Joe went on, unwinding a cord and plugging it in. “So what was it about her, do you think?”
“She had this tattoo.” Caleb didn’t look up to get Joe’s reaction.
Joe laughed. “You fell in love with a tattoo?”
Caleb waved away the air between them. “She looked native, black hair and warm brown skin.”
“You’re in trouble,” said Joe. “I can see it.”
Caleb began to pick at his guitar while his friend tapped out a chant cadence on the table. He stopped and pointed at Joe, “Not funny.”
“I think you’re going to need another coffee,” said Joe, slapping Caleb on the shoulder before taking a seat at the mixing console. “Ask her out.”
“She’ll think I’m an ass,” said Caleb.
“You are!” Joe laughed.
Caleb smiled down at his guitar and shot Joe the finger.
But the next morning, Caleb was ready for coffee. He brought a small stack of the half-sheet flyers announcing his performances at The Riverside Grille. When he paid for the coffee, he slid the flyers to her under a ten. Her eyes were so deeply brown they were almost black. He said, “Could you do me a favor? Hand a few of these to your friends? Maybe keep some on the counter?”
“Sure,” she said. “This is you?”
“Thank you. It is. I’ll be playing tonight and tomorrow. I hear the food is really good there, too,” Caleb pointed to her name tag and looked into her eyes again. She was smiling. “I hope to see you there, Haseya.”
“Ha SÁY AH”, she corrected, with a playful twist to her mouth that told Caleb she was in on his flirting. Her co-worker rolled his eyes.
“Ha-SAY-ah,” Caleb attempted. He gave her back a flirtatious smile, then managed to get himself and his coffee out the door before the goofy grin took over.
By the time Caleb had his guitar tuned and ready to play that night, the dinner crowd had begun to fill the tables. He strummed out a few standbys to pull in the diners. When he finished playing his version of Take Me to the River, there were already plenty of nods and clapping.
All but the farthest tables were filled, but no Haseya. Maybe tomorrow night.
He nodded to the restaurant’s owner and the lights dimmed. A small stage light separated Caleb from his audience and brought the focus onto him. An Evening with Caleb Allen began.
He turned on his best Southwest American accent. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Caleb Allen. Thank you for being here tonight. If you don’t know me yet, you’ll know me soon.” And then he switched to full Scottish brogue, his father’s face filling his mind, “Aye, an’ if ye hav’nae guessed it, I was born an’ raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, tho my mam is an American from California.
I’ll start off at my own beginnings tonight. Ye may know my Auntie, Grace Allen? . . .”
Expectedly, there was no response from the crowd.
“ . . .Or ye may not. She was a member of a band with a few hits in the UK in the 1980s. How many have heard of . . .The Smiths?”
There was some clapping, murmurs, and heads turning to each other. Caleb waited a beat. “Aye. Not that one. But it was Grace Allen of Grace and the Charlies who taught me the first song in this set. I hae been playing a version since I was a lad. It’s by an American I’m certain ye do ken. Jimi Hendrix.”
The clapping was more energetic this time.
“Aye. And after that I’ll to go straight into a new song, new to you anyway, one I started writing not long after. It’s called A Dream-chasing Girl. It’s a ballad for a ghost that haunts my family all the way from California. My friend Joe here. . . ” Caleb pointed to Joe who waved back at the dinner crowd, “. . . Thinks it belongs on my next album. I trust ye’ll let me know if ye agree.
So here we go, this is my take on Jimi Hendrix’s, Little Wing.”
When Caleb launched into the song, nothing else existed for him. He became the vibration of his instrument, the words and notes flowing from somewhere beyond thought. The Hendrix tune was one he had made his own over time; he honored it in his own style, which blended classic rock with American folk and just a dash of Hawaiian breeze he had picked up along the way.
As Little Wing ended, he gracefully bridged the melody into his own song. When he glanced up at the dinner crowd, almost every face was turned to him. His heart gave an extra beat. Of all the songs he had written and played over the years, this one remained precious, almost too precious to share. But now it was time. He hoped it would be tenderly received. As he played on, the intro unfurled into the lyrics like sails in a perfect wind. Caleb was lost again to the music until he entered the last verse. As he finished the song, he became conscious of every word:
“Her dreams sent her to ride the wind,
A prize that she would bravely win,
But hers was not the fate she had chosen,
A dream-chasing girl.”
He looked up into the crowd again as he played the bridge and moved on to the final chorus.
“May their hooves ring ever onward,
And her mem’ry, therefore honored
For the hopes she dared to follow,
A dream-chasing girl.”
When the audience applauded, a trill ran under his ribs. Joe gave him a nod and a wink. This one was definitely going on the next album.
The rest of the evening went just as well, better than Caleb had dared to expect, with tips, handshakes, and no doubt a raft of new followers. And he still had another night to play in Sedona.
Maybe this ball is finally rolling, he thought. By the time he returned in September, there would be a new album—and hopefully a good local buzz. The only thing that could have made the night better was if Haseya had been there.
Caleb flew up the sidewalk to the coffee shop the next morning with so much adrenaline he didn’t even need the coffee. He didn’t mind the warmth his quads were generating on the climb, and the view on the way was spectacular.
He pushed open the door and glanced around. He didn’t see Haseya. Instead, a chubby teen popped out from a back room and walked up to take his order.
“Is Haseya working today?” Caleb asked the boy.
“She’s in the back at the roaster,” he pointed with a nod. “Can I get you something?”
Caleb ordered a coffee and waited. Staring at his phone, he began to wonder if he was making a fool of himself. When he saw Haseya at last, a group of five people came in and Caleb backed away while she and her co-worker helped them. Then three more customers walked in.
It was getting awkward. She was so busy. Caleb decided it would be better to come back later. He looked over his shoulder one more time. When he did, he saw Haseya put up both hands to him with fingers outstretched, then she pointed at her wrist and then the door. He gave her a thumbs-up and went to a picnic table outside to wait.
His heart felt light as he sat, enjoying the beauty around him while the day warmed. The Sedona sky was brilliant blue. The landscape seemed to reach up from the earth like sign language, flecked with a powdered-sugar dusting of snow against red rocks and blue-green foliage. How did I miss all this beauty before?
Several minutes later, Haseya came out and sat down across from him. The landscape melted away.
She said, “I only have a few minutes, but I wanted to tell you, I saw your show last night. You play beautifully. Annie and I really liked it.”
“You were there?” Caleb asked, but his mind flipped a switch. “You and Annie,” he said.
“Annie’s my girl. She’s in my self-portrait.” Haseya pointed toward the wall inside the café. “I saw you looking at it yesterday.”
“Oh.” My girl. That could mean anything, Caleb thought.
He said, “The painting is beautiful, striking. . . But ‘self-portrait’? I hate to say this, but it looks nothing like you.” He hoped she would pick up on the play in his voice.
She did, and her laugh was like a sparkling waterfall. “I’m what they call a bilisáana. An apple. Red on the outside, you know. Even my name has no meaning, just like Sedona.”
“I thought Haseya meant, ‘she rises’ in Navajo, uh, Diné,” said Caleb.
“You’re giving yourself away,” she laughed again, but her eyes were warm. “You looked it up, didn’t you?
Caleb squirmed slightly.
Haseya continued, “That’s not only wrong, it’s impossible. But I know where you got it. I know nothing about the organization you found online. I mean, I’m sure they do good things, but to begin with, there are no “she” or “he” pronouns in the Navajo language. And the root means nothing like “to rise”. It’s closer to “to walk” but even that is a stretch. If anything, “Haseya” is more like, “that person went out for something and came back” as in, a round trip. So, I guess I’m good for getting coffee, right? Don’t worry, I always come back.”
They both laughed.
He said, “You seem very knowledgeable about the language.”
“I’m an educated injun,” she said coolly, but then instantly brightened. “I love languages.”
She was intriguing. Caleb wanted it to go on and on. It seemed she did too, but then she pulled out her phone to check the time.
She said, “I’ve gotta get back.”
Caleb grabbed the opportunity. “Hey, can I buy you lunch later? I’d like to continue the conversation.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m watching Annie’s kids after work.”
Caleb’s heart dipped slightly. There wasn’t enough time. “How about tomorrow—Sunday?”
She said, “I’m helping my step-dad at the ranch. . .”
Two cars pulled up in the parking lot. She got up and went to the door, saying, “It’s too much to explain. I’ve got to get back. CJ is new.”
“Ok,” Caleb didn’t want to push. She seemed interested, but who knows, maybe Annie was not just a friend. “See you here tomorrow morning for coffee?”
Still standing halfway in the door, that coyote laughing at him from her shoulder, Haseya said, “I’m off tomorrow. Some time next week?”
She sounded genuine.
“Och, I’ll be in Phoenix. Well, I’ll be back in town in September . . .” Said Caleb, a tightening in his stomach.
“I’ll be sure and see you play,” she said. “You’re really good! Especially that new song. It was haunting in the best way. It was so great meeting you, Caleb Allen. I’ll put the word out.”
“It was great meeting you too, Haseya,” said Caleb, then he added lamely, “You’ve got my Insta on the flyers.”
She waved, and the door closed behind her.
Next
Part 4 | This Storm is Called Progress
3 - Hello Ammy
Behind-the-Scenes Extra
It’s been a busy week. My sister-in-law invited us to spend some time in Nashville for our brother-in-law’s birthday. It was not only a great time, but we saw some very talented musicians. The timing worked out nicely for writing this chapter. It gave me a fresh feel for how each artist plays the crowd as well as their music.
The artist lifestyle is never easy on the money side, but if you were made to perform, it’s what you have to do to feed your soul. You can see it in their faces. They wouldn’t be busting their butts out there if performing wasn’t deep in their blood.
Much like the last chapter, this one started as a short story based on a song, Hey, Coyote, by Mipso. I have to give Mipso credit, because they told the story first, I just added a lot more detail.
The coyote in the song took my mind back to the late 90’s, when I was very interested in learning about the Navajo/Diné culture. I read all the myths and stories I could find. I even tried for a short time to learn the language from an online program—which is laughable. It didn’t last long because obviously I had no one to speak it with.
As for Little Wing, I first heard Sting’s version and it struck me as haunting in a childlike way. I knew Caleb would be writing a song about Dani. It kind of terrified me that that meant I would be writing a song for him. I don’t even read music. In the end, I let Little Wing do most of the work, but the verse and chorus I included in this chapter were written to the tune of Mouth Music’s A Seafaring Man. I don’t necessarily think you should listen to the song though. Caleb’s version would be so different.
Just for fun, here are a couple of Spotify links to music that helped inspire this chapter:
Next week, you will hear from Lisa and Tim again. It’s not exactly a new character I’m introducing, but there might be some puppy-breath and tail-wagging, so don’t miss “Hello Ammy”!