He never talked about it when I was growing up.  My father’s name is Thomas.  Thomas Jones.  Tommy to his close friends.  Tom to most everyone else.  He married my mother, Gina, right out of college.  Both of them went right to work.  My father worked in agriculture while my mother pursued nursing in our small town of Mancos, Colorado.  In case you don’t know, and most people don’t, Mancos is home to just over 1600 people and sits just east of the entrance to Mesa Verde National Park.  Mesa  Verde became a national park in 1906 when President Theodore Roosevelt created it to preserve its biggest attraction: the Puebloan cliff dwellings.  Centuries ago, the Native Americans that lived there carved their homes into the earth.  Archaeological experts from all over the world came and still come to Mesa Verde and there are over 4000 archaeological sites and over 600 preserved cliff dwellings that draw hundreds of thousands of visitors every year.  Last year alone over 620,000 people visited the national park.

When most people think of Colorado and scenic landscapes, they usually think of the Rocky Mountains.  And, yes, they also have a national park.  And, yes, they saw over 4.5 million people last year at their park.  But 620,000 was plenty of traffic coming through our little town of Mancos along U.S. Route 160.   Route 160 stretches from Arizona all the way to Missouri. It was made famous in 1975 in the country music song Wolf Creek Pass by C. W. McCall.  Okay, maybe famous is a bit of a stretch.  If you travel northeast along the two-lane Route, you’ll go through the southern bit of the San Juan National Forest and hit the town of Hesperus.  In the other direction, after you pass the Mesa Verde National Park, you’ll run into Cortez.  They have a Walmart Supercenter and think they’re quite special.  As for the Joneses, we lived right in the middle of nowhere in Mancos.  And we loved it.

Father began working for the Willson Farm after college.  Quickly, his degrees in business administration and agriculture from Southwest Colorado Community College were put to good use.  He was able to increase production, decrease costs, maximize labor and help grow the farm to service all of Southwestern Colorado instead of just the few local towns. 

A lot happened in the next ten years.  My father saved up enough money to start his own farm.  He employed over fifty people to maintain the fields, care for livestock, harvest the crops, package and deliver their goods, and to set up an online presence with a website, a Facebook page and an Instagram account.  His farm was supplying stores in Utah, Arizona and New Mexico and he was looking to expand even further.  He owned tractors, backhoes, front-end loaders, cultivators, cultipackers, plows, balers and rakers.  Four years after starting his own farm, I was born.  My name is Elliss.  I was named after Luther Elliss, defensive tackle for the Detroit Lions and the Denver Broncos football teams.  Luther was born in Mancos and my father is an avid Denver Broncos fan.  So it was a bit of a no-brainer that I would be named after the two-time Pro Bowler and most famous athlete to come out of our little town.

I grew up mostly helping my dad around the farm.  My mother continued working as a nurse at Southwest Medical Group.  They are a smaller hospital and definitely don’t have the funds and resources that Mercy Regional Medical Center has in Durango to the east past Hesperus.  She could have made more money out there, and they wanted her skills, but she always said that’s all the more reason to stay and help the good people in Mancos.  

Everyone in town knew my father.  Every time we walked down Grand Avenue, I could hear “Hey there, Tommy” and “Good to see ya, Tom” coming from every direction.  I even heard, “There’s the famous Joneses.”  At least, that’s what I thought I heard.  It made sense.  We were somewhat of local celebrities and our family name was Jones.  I didn’t think anything of it.  I was too busy admiring all the local art and listening to the live music in what’s called The Creative District.  My dad was there networking and looking for local supplies. 

In 1992, when I was two years old, our little town had another notable celebrity to brag about.  Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton was running for President of the United States against President George Bush.  Mr. Clinton in his bus with his entourage made their way through Mancos to hold a rally at Mesa Verde National Park.  I never gave it much thought.  I was only two.  But apparently it was a big deal.  I didn’t understand why it was a big deal.  It would seem that the tour worked as Bill defeated the President.  By a lot.  The final tally was 370 to 168.  That didn’t make sense to me until I got older.  Even at a young age I knew there had to be more than 538 people voting in an election.  But that didn’t matter much to me. 

The real story started my first day of high school at Mancos High, home of the Blue Jays.  The school was built in 1909 and is the longest continuously used high school in the state of Colorado.  We’re a pretty big deal.  We have a basketball team, a baseball team and a football team.  As much as my dad wanted me to play football after my namesake, I chose basketball.  I’m tall, like my dad, and definitely not built to get knocked around on the football field.  My father always supported that decision and never expressed any disappointment, though I’m sure he would rather have a football helmet and pads laying around the house than basketball shorts and tank tops.

On the first day of school, when Mr. Dunlap took roll call for the first time in my high school career, he made his way through the names alphabetically.  Michael Adams.  Jennifer Burgess.  Ezekiel Crenshaw.  Finally, he got to my name.  

“Elliss Jones,” he called out, going down the list on his clipboard.

“Here,” I replied.

“You’re Moses’ kid, huh?”

“No, sir.  I’m Tommy Jones’ kid.  Elliss.”

“Right.  You’re Moses’ kid,” he repeated, like I didn’t know my own name.

“Okay, Mr. Butt Slap,” was my snarky response.

“Excuse me, young man?” he seemed upset.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I wasn’t really sorry.  “I thought we were just making up names.  You say I’m Moses’ kid, I dub thee Mr. Butt Slap.”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“My name?  Yeah, it’s Elliss Jones.  And my father is Thomas Jones.”

Ultimately, I was sent to the Principal’s office.  When I walked in, the secretary, Miss Stevens was sitting at the desk.  She looked at me, looked at the clock, then looked back at me.

“That must be a new school record,” she said half surprised and half amused.  She was sweet.

“I’m thinking that’s not a good thing.”

“The entire school year is only ten minutes in.  I mean, it’s not terribly uncommon to have someone sent here on the first day.  But in the first ten minutes?  Come on.  What did you do?” 

“I called Mr. Dunlap, Mr. Butt Slap.”

“And why,” I could tell she was trying to keep from laughing, “why would you do that?”

“He started it.”

“Okay, okay.  Calm down.  What’s your name anyway?”

“Jones.  Elliss Jones.”

“Ohh right.  You’re Moses’ kid.”

Was this a joke?  Was I on some elaborate prank show?  Before I could even ask her what was going on, she was on the phone calling my father and I was having flashbacks to people greeting us on the street over the years.  Were they really saying, “There’s the famous Joneses”?  Or were they saying “Moses” this whole time and I just never picked up on it?

My father walked into the office and he was not pleased to see me there.  

He looked at me, then addressed Miss Stevens.  “What did he do?”

“Well, apparently he called a teacher Mr. Butt Slap.”

“Dad,” I was going to try to explain.

He shot me a stern look and I stopped.  We got in his red pickup truck and left the school.  Quietly.  Excruciatingly quiet.  When we got home, he motioned for me to sit on the couch as he paced back and forth composing himself.  

“Okay, son.  I hope, I pray, there’s a good explanation for this.”

“You and me both.”  I was hoping that telling him what I did and why would not only get me out of trouble, but also lead to some answers about this whole Moses thing going on.

“They called you Moses’ kid?  Oh, son.  I was hoping they’d gotten over that by now, it was so long ago.”

“Wait, you know what they’re talking about?”

He went to the bookcase and reached behind a couple of books on the second shelf.  He retrieved an unlabeled disc and put it in the DVD player.  The television came on and then Governor Bill Clinton was speaking at a rally in Mesa Verde.  The sun was setting behind him and the whole park glowed orange as thousands gathered to hear him speak.  Towards the beginning of his address, he said this:

“I want to thank a great American, a hero really.  Mr. Thomas Jones.  That man just saved my life.  He parted traffic with a wave of his staff and the cars split to the sides of the road like Moses parting the Red Sea.  God bless you, Moses Jones.”

I’m assuming the speech went on from there, but father turned off the television.

“Ummm, what was that?” I asked.

“In 1992, just as my business was starting to take off, young Bradley Zimmer was driving down old 160 in Bessy.”  Bradley was one of the first kids my dad ever hired to work for him and Ole Bessy was his very first tractor.  “Well, Bessy broke down right in the middle of the road.  Bradley panicked and left her there and began running back to the farm.  I just happened to be heading in that direction when I saw Bradley running up the street like a maniac.  He saw my truck and told me what happened.  It was early evening, just before the nightly commute was about to get going.  We didn’t have much time.  Bradley took my truck and went back to the farm to get some tools.  I ran up ahead to get to the tractor.

“When I got there, cars were already slamming on their brakes to avoid hitting her.  She was a big beast in the middle of the road, kinda hard to miss.  But as the sun began to set in the West, it made it tough for those heading west to see her in time with the sun beaming right in their eyes.  I had to do something.  I didn’t have any flares or cones and I could see more cars coming up in the distance.

“I ran to the side of the road and pulled up two metal stakes from the fencing along the road.  I ripped the sleeves off my shirt and stuffed them with leaves from the acacia trees down by the Nelson house.  I wrapped the leaf-filled sleeves around the ends of the stakes and ran back to the tractor.  I grabbed my Zippo and lit the sleeves on fire.  The acacia leaves helped make a big bright blaze.  I raised the flaming stakes in the air and waved them back and forth to warn oncoming traffic.

“Coming up fast was Clinton’s campaign bus and his motorcade.  They weren’t slowing down.  I had to warn them somehow.  I remembered there was a flare gun on the tractor.  I jumped up, grabbed the gun, aimed it just in front of the first limo coming my way and fired.  The twilight sky lit up red from the flare.  I stood on the tractor and waved my arms with the stakes still ablaze at the ends. 

“It worked.  They swerved and missed us and made it safely to Mesa Verde.  Anyway, I really wasn’t expecting him to say what he did once he got there.  I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but folks around here started calling me Moses.  I never really liked the attention.  I guess that’s why I never said anything.  I was hoping it would have blown over by now.”

And that’s the story I tell my son, Moses Jones, every time he asks how he got his name.

Alice sat at the bar in the restaurant alone.  She ordered a drink for two reasons: she needed something to calm her nerves (she was shaking like the last orange fall leaf dangling precariously from the branch of an otherwise naked oak tree), and she needed proof that she wasn’t home when it happened.  This was to be her alibi.

She sucked down her mojito like it was water in the desert and ordered another.  She ran her fingers through her wavy brown hair that she felt was turning grey by the minute.  Anxiously, she tossed salted pretzels in her mouth and checked her phone.  It would be done any minute now.

He unintentionally startled her as he occupied the stool next to her.  She physically jumped, dropped her phone on the bar and spilled what remained of her second mojito.  He apologized and gave a very handsome smile.  He pulled a handkerchief from his black sports coat and offered it to Alice who graciously accepted his gesture.

The bartender was quick to arrive with dry bar towels to clean the spilled beverage.  A quick gesture from the man in the black jacked with the nice smile and the bartender quickly got to work concocting another fizzy mint and lime libation for her, which she accepted readily.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, again flashing those pearly whites.  He wasn’t creepy.  He was rather suave as a matter of fact.  Like James Bond without the English accent.  Smooth, debonair, and full of confidence, though not smug.

“No,” Alice replied.  “Though I’m afraid I won’t be much company right now.”

“I wouldn’t want to disturb you,” he said, still playing it cool.  The mystery man stood up as though he would find another place to sit.

Alice regained herself and thought this could help her alibi.  She took another big swig of her drink to keep the liquid courage flowing and grabbed his arm to stop his exit.

“Please,” she motioned to the stool.  “Actually, some company would be nice.”

He retook his seat at the bar.  After patting her arms and hands dry with his handkerchief, she offered it back to him.  He took it and repositioned it neatly back into his jacket pocket.  She tried to muster up a smile but she knew she looked nervous.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he leaned in closer. “Are you alright?”

She played with her hair again, took another big straw full of booze.  “No, I guess I’m not.”

After inquiring more about what was the matter, she gestured to the diamond ring on her left ring finger.

“Marriage problems?” he asked.

“That’s an understatement,” she laughed, though it wasn’t funny at all.  She looked again at her phone.  It was almost time.  Things would be better soon.  Alice just needed to keep it together.  Keep talking to the nice man, pay for your drinks, then go home a free woman to start your new life.

“Would you like to talk about it?” He seemed genuinely sincere.

“I don’t suppose I should.  But could I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, I don’t drink.”

“Funny place to be for someone who doesn’t drink,” she pointed out the obvious.

“I’m actually meeting someone here, a client.”

“Well, as long as we’re sharing life stories,” she was feeling more comfortable.  “What is it that you do?”

“I guess you could say, I help people with their problems.”  It could have sounded sinister, but his big brown eyes glimmered and he smiled his famous smile again, so she didn’t assume the worst.  She didn’t even suspect.

“You mean, like a psychiatrist?”

“Not exactly, though people do often tell me their personal problems, and sometimes I’m able to make things better.”

“Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable talking to you.”

He smiled again.  “Maybe.”

Once again, she looked at her phone to check the time and ordered another mojito.  They were starting to kick in and serve their purpose.  Just a few more minutes.  She had married young.  They met in college.  He was already on the fast-track to success.  He knew exactly what he wanted to do in life and was working hard to make it happen.  He was frugal with his money as they dated, though never stingy.  They lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood.  He came home every night and she never suspected him of cheating on her.  But, after three years, she grew bored.  She felt like she had missed out on some of the most fun times in her life while he carved out a financially secure future for the both of them.  Alice wanted more.  

She loved the big house, the pool in the back, the membership to the country club, the nice car.  But she missed the parties with her friends.  She began to convince herself that he was holding her captive in her own house, though that wasn’t true at all.  She had watched too many Lifetime movies in the afternoon while he was at work.  She grew bitter at him, but she never told him.  She could have left him.  She was still young enough, she could get back to partying and still have time to find another guy to settle down with eventually.  But she loved the perks of being with someone who made so much money.  And that’s when she came up with the idea, a way that she could have both. 

She never met the man who was to give her back her freedom, and allow her to keep her fortunes, and the agreement was that it would stay that way.  She didn’t want to know, she was just to be informed as soon as it was done.  And it was about to happen, with her safely at the bar, with witnesses.

The mystery man stood up and buttoned his black suit jacket. “I’m afraid I should be going.”

Alice was disappointed and asked him to stay.

“I do have a job to do, and you, well you have a reason on your finger there why I shouldn’t stay longer.”

She looked at her diamond ring and laughed.  “Oh this.  I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“Oh really,” he smiled again which she took as interest.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asked after looking at her phone one last time.  For some reason, maybe one too many mojitos, she decided she would tell him that her marriage  was about to be dissolved, for lack of a better term.  She was also going to throw it out there that she was to inherit all the money.  The deed hadn’t even been done yet and she was already making plans with a stranger in a bar.

“I really must be taking care of my client,” he insisted.  “I’m somewhat of a stickler for punctuality.”

“Oh for crying out loud. Who is this client?  Your phone hasn’t gone off, no one else has approached you, I’m the only one you’ve talked to since you’ve been in here.  What client?”

Before he answered, he pulled out his phone.  She could tell he was fingering out a text message.  He put his phone away and then he leaned in close.  He smelled wonderful.  She noticed his cologne when he first sat next to her, but at this proximity, it was intoxicating.  She leaned towards him, offering her ear to his lips to receive the secret he was about to divulge.  She heard her phone buzz on the bar and saw the text message on her screen.  A chill ran down her spine as she realized who the client was he had been talking about.

“But I hired you to kill him!” 

He smiled again and said, “Can you keep a secret?”

It was Thursday night at The Gatsby, a swanky night club downtown.  It was named after The Great Gatsby, the 1925 novel written by F. Scott Fitzgerald about a New Yorker named Jay Gatsby, a self-made millionaire who lived in a luxurious mansion where he would often host extravagant parties.  The Gatsby,  having been around just over a  year, was one of the newer joints to get in on the speakeasy trend that was becoming more and more popular.  Back in the 20s when booze was illegal, underground bars would operate in the shadows.  A password or a secret knock or a combination of both were often required to gain access, a security measure to keep unwanted Flatfoots or “T-Men” from raiding the place.  If the location of the bar was ever shared, it was only done so after looking both ways, leaning in close, and whispering in a soft voice to avoid disclosing the sensitive information to eavesdropping ears.  Hence the name, speakeasy.  The speakeasies were making a comeback. They provided a way to get a glimpse of what the scene used to look like back in the day, except, without the fear of getting raided by armed police and hauled off in a paddy wagon.

Michael was behind the bar, shaking martinis, pouring beers, keeping the patrons company who sat at his rail.  He wore a black button-down shirt with a white collar, white tie and white suspenders.  His sleeves were neatly rolled up to his elbows.  Everyone knew Michael, unless they’d never been to The Gatsby before.  And Michael knew everyone, unless they’d never been to The Gatsby before.  

A four-piece band dressed in various colors of Zoot Suits recreated the hits from the Jazz Era.  The pianist tickled the ivories, the trumpeter squealed and the bassist gaily plucked away as the crooner sang “Ain’t Misbehavin’” originally performed by Fats Waller.   Everyone in the club was dressed to the nines.  The dames in their dresses.  The cats in their suits.  It wasn’t mandatory to attire according to the theme, though many opted to do so.  There were plenty of fedoras, two-tone Oxfords, flappers and feathered boas.

Randall sat at the bar.  He was in a grey suit.  It wasn’t flashy or a throwback to the 20s, just was what he wore to work that day.  It was his first visit to The Gatsby.  After a long day at the office, he was just looking for a good scene with some decent music, a stiff drink and possibly even meet a kitten to keep him company.  

Randall was enjoying the music and nursing his second Sidecar when she walked in and made her way to the bar.  She was a looker.  Blonde hair just past her shoulders.  Blue eyes that sparkled, full red lips, and a body perfectly silhouetted by a full length royal blue dress.  Elizabeth was in her early 40s but could easily pass for 30 the way she took care of herself.  She set her purse on the bar and started to remove her faux fur jacket.  Randall quickly leapt to her aid.  She smiled at the gesture and thanked him for his hospitality.  She took her seat and Michael was right there to greet her.

“Name’s Michael, darlin’.  What’s your pleasure?”

“Well, Michael, I’m Elizabeth.  It’s my first time here.  What would you recommend?” 

This was Michael’s specialty.  As good as he was with remembering everyone who had been in his bar more than once, he was even better at sizing up a customer and pairing them with the perfect drink.  Before even making a recommendation, he got to work.  He tossed a silver mixing tin into the air, catching it in one hand and using the other to throw in a scoop of ice.  He flipped a bottle of gin that he caught and poured into the tin before returning it to the line of bottles in front of him.  He squeezed a lemon and added some simple syrup to the mix before capping it and shaking it rigorously.  The contents of the tin were strained into a champagne flute and topped with a bubbly champagne.  He pulled out another lemon and a paring knife from his back pocket that he used to carve a perfect curly garnish that he set on the edge of the glass before placing it in front of Elizabeth.

“Quite the showman there, Michael.  And what is this?”

“That, my dear Elizabeth, is a French 75.  Enjoy.”  He turned to Randall.  “How are you doing on that Sidecar, Randall?”

“Oh, it’s just fine thank you.” Randall barely looked away from Elizabeth. “It’s my first time here as well.”

“You don’t say,” responded Elizabeth coyly. 

“I believe I did just say.”  His feeble attempt at humor yielded a gracious half-giggle from Elizabeth.  “I’m Randall,” he said, extending his hand as a salutation.

“Elizabeth.”  She shook his hand and went back to her drink.

“So what’s a dame like you doin’ in a joint like this?” He attempted a very poor Bogart impression.

“I’m actually meeting someone here.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Thanks.  You’re sweet.  I hope he thinks so.”

“Well, if he doesn’t, good old Randall is sitting right here.”  They both turned to their drinks realizing how desperate that came across.

A minute later, what seemed like thirty minutes after that awkward exchange, a gentleman approached Elizabeth at the bar.  He wore a black pinstripe suit with a blue button-down shirt and a dark gray tie with a blue and white design printed on it.  “Is this seat taken, miss?” he asked motioning to the stool beside her.

“Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Well, how about I keep the stool warm until he arrives?”

Randall thought this new guy sounded even more ridiculous than he did.  He waited for the inevitable rejection that he suffered just minutes earlier.  To Randall’s shock and dismay, Elizabeth allowed the man to sit.  Once again, Michael was there in a beat to greet the stranger who promptly ordered a Pina Colada.  A little unusual for this kind of a joint.  Michael paused for half a second before getting to work on the drink.  Elizabeth and Randall paused slightly longer and the stranger picked up on their judgment but said nothing.

A white blended Pina Colada garnished with a pineapple wedge and a cherry in a rounded glass was set in front of the man.  He took a swig from the straw and smiled with satisfaction, Elizabeth and Randall still eyeing him.

“I like Pina Coladas.  I don’t care.” And he took another straw full.

Just then, the band started in with an upbeat tune.  “You’d be Surprised!” originally performed by Eddie Cantor.

The stranger stood up.  “That sounds like a fun tune.  Let’s give it a whirl.”  He extended his hand to Elizabeth.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, quite surprised at his audacity.  “I told you I’m waiting for someone.”

Randall chuckled as he overheard.  The stranger was not dissuaded and he took her hand.  Before Randall knew what happened, they were trotting off to the dance floor.  He watched as the two began to dance.  They danced the Charleston, the Peabody and the Turkey Trot, flawlessly executed as though it had been choreographed.  Randall looked to Michael with an expression of, “What is going on?”  Michael just shrugged his shoulders.  

The two of them nearly galloped back to the bar, laughing, holding hands.  Randall was still shocked and confused.  The stranger, who seemed not so much a stranger anymore, asked Michael for the tab for the Pina Colada and the French 75.   Randall couldn’t keep his tongue anymore as it was clear they were about to leave together.

“What about the man you’ve been waiting for?” he asked Elizabeth.

“Oh don’t be such a fuddy duddy.  I’m having such a great time with . . .” she paused and giggled embarrassed.  “I don’t even know your name.”

“Thomas.  Thomas Kincaide,” he introduced himself and bent forward to kiss the back of her hand.  She giggled again.

Thomas paid the bill and they left arm-in-arm together.  Michael cleared the drinks they left behind and wiped down the bar.  Randall ordered another Sidecar still not sure what just happened.  

“Does that sort of thing happen here a lot?” he asked as Michael replaced his empty drink with the one he just made.

“About once a month,” was the response.

Randall looked even more confused.

“We call them the Jimmy Buffetts.  About once a month, they come in, pretend it’s their first time here, pretend they’re meeting randomly for the first time, then leave together after a drink and a dance.  I guess they’ve been married for about 15 years now and they do this at restaurants, movie theatres, parks all over town.  I guess it just keeps the spark going.  And we all just play along.”

A beautiful red-head walked up to Randall.  Her red dress and red lipstick made her long hair seem even more fiery.  He looked up from his Sidecar and his jaw dropped like when Eddie Valiant got a glimpse of Jessica Rabbit for the first time.  

“Is this seat taken?” she asked in a soft and sultry voice.

Randall looked at the seat, looked at her, looked at the door where Elizabeth ran off with Thomas just moments earlier, then looked at Michael for reassurance.  Michael just shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” Randall said with a sigh.

Just another Thursday at The Gatsby.  Michael laughed to himself and went to attend others at the bar.