48: Arizona

Start
You lean in to blow on the fire, gently coaxing the flames from tinder to twigs to branches, then sit back on your heels to watch.

The desert is pink and purple in the sunset. In the distance, the dark green wooded mountaintops of the Sierra Madre float like islands, rising up from the ocean of the plains.

You take the letter from your backpack and read it again. “Tucson High School class of 1980 30-year reunion,” it says across the top, “November 24, 2010.”

Well, why the hell not. You climb into the dirt-brown Chinook and pat Rusty on the head. His tail gives a halfhearted, sleepy wag.

Spit in your hand and brush back your hair, check your face for stubble in the mirror, sniff your armpits and smell your breath. Nothing. You smile.

It’s been 30 years; you could tell them anything … so which story do you want to tell?

For denial, go to 1
For anger, go to 2
For bargaining, go to 3
For despair, go to 4
For acceptance, go to 5


1.
“Everything went great at 3M after my big invention,” you tell Rob, whose fat, sagging face you barely recognize. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

You wait for the obvious question but he’s busy drinking, so you take a sip of scotch then go on. “Anyway, that’s around when I finally married my sweetheart Shelly and bought our house on Lake Superior. It’s beautiful up there.”


2.
“Actually, Larry, the whole story about how I invented Post-it Notes is a joke, and I never liked that bitch.” You wink and clap him on the arm. “Truth is, I’m an assassin.”

Larry laughs. You toss back your scotch and reach inside your jacket. “You think that’s funny?” you ask. “Say you prayers, asshole.”


3.
“It wasn’t fair!” You’re talking to this girl you had a crush on all through 10th grade, you’re pretty sure. “Shelly got pregnant and I had to marry her. She’s been holding it over my head ever since.”

You finish off one scotch and hoist the other. “I’ve made a killing,” you continue, “but it’s all gone to her … for another house, another car, you name it.” You lean in for a kiss. “But if I could turn back time, I’d trade it all for you,” you glance down at her breasts and nametag, “Brenda.”


4.
You’re six or seven scotches in when Shelly finds you slumped over at a table in the corner. “What are you doing here?” you ask, the words slurring together, like somebody tried to scrub them out with an off-brand eraser.

“I heard about that dirty movie you made of us, you pig,” she says. “Now you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”


5.
“I live in a van out in the hills by I-10,” you shout from your perch atop the DJ table. “I lost my job at 3M last year. The bank took my home, my wife left me; my kids won’t answer my calls. I’ve lost everything,” You look at the glass of scotch shaking in your hand, and put it down, “but I’ve found myself.”

The DJ, Scott something-or-other, is nodding his head, either in agreement or to the music. “I wanna rock with you,” the speakers sing, “all night.” Everybody keeps dancing.


End
You open your eyes and stare out the windshield. Another stupidly beautiful sunset is just ending. Beside you, Rusty barks and wags his tail.

You fold the letter up and put it back in its envelope, get out of the van, and toss it into the fire. The ashes and embers rise like moths, the invitation going up in smoke, like a dream.

47: New Mexico

It’s a player’s house, I know it; there’s magic and XP everywhere in this bitch.

I start searching the crates, the barrels … the medicine cabinet is the fucking motherload: more bottles than I can count, pills in every color of the rainbow – ambien, benzedrine, codeine, diazepam – “Are you a believer in miracles,” I sing to myself. “Da-doo una time some-thing miracles.”

I’m popping them into my mouth like skittles when the old man comes in, a huge chrome revolver in a holster on his hip. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.

I give him the signal, slapping two fingers on my arm. He pulls his gun and drops into a crouch. Time for plan B, I think. “Can I get a couple of extra-large chalupas?” I ask, “And an orange coke?”

A metallic click echoes off the bathroom tile as he cocks the hammer back. “Sorry, I thought this was a Taco Bell.”

He shakes his head. “Son, do you think this is a game?” He asks. “Shit,” He stands up and looks at the gun in his hands. “What kind of world are we living in?”

“The World of Reality,” I say, but he ain’t listening.

46: Oklahoma

Dust rising from distant horizon. Pickup truck streaking along perpendicular gravel roads. Route 66 stretching south, southwest.

Cement road running through ruins. Houses falling into their foundations. Ghost towns returning to prairie.

Smoke rising from faraway refineries. Rusting oil derricks pecking at barren cornfield. Fat crows chasing the worm.

Rows of parallel lines intersecting. Some solitary farmer plowing rows of stones. This dry landscape, ever changing. His straw hat shading faded gray overalls. A scarecrow harvesting bumper crops of nothing.

White clouds turning gray, coalescing. Raindrops kicking up footstep puffs of dust.  Dark sky spiraling down, funneling. Dirty road turning muddy in the mirror. A tornado slashing unmarred plains like calligraphy.


Country giving way to city. Buffalo retreating from the roadside. Trees turning back into houses.

Round red barn crouching, windowless. Glowing soda bottle reaching 66 feet high. Giant metal crucifix standing empty.

Turning south into Oklahoma City. Golden sunlight falling on buildings, reflecting pools. Countless chairs lying in rows.

Red traffic lights turning green. All-glass building complex reflecting all the others. Elevated walkway spanning the street. Skyscraper shadows standing as still as scarecrows.  Sundials marking movement of space and time.

City limits decaying into suburbs. Telephone poles and wires springing up alongside. Passing Will Rogers World Airport. Predator drone floating in the cornflower sky. Listless guard watching the horizon for tornadoes.


Driving along route 66 again. A lonely highway chasing the setting sun. A hitchhiker looking westward, squinting.

Following a route on GoogleMaps. The Great Plains forming an upturned palm. Oklahoma’s finger pointing the way.

Driving an unmarked black sedan. Cameras automatically snapping nine frames at once. Making panoramas of the states.

45: Utah

In the other room Bryce is crying. I rub my eyes, waiting for the Oxy to kick in. “God, just shut up,” I whisper. Why isn’t John home yet? He knows I’ve got a reading to finish. The words have all run together. Where the hell was I?

… and while recent studies have shown the popularity of online pornography in Utah (Edelman 2009), the topic of sexuality has been of interest there from even before the states conception, as can be seen in this early proto-Harlequin:

“Message for you from Deseret, Miss Smith.” She took the piece of paper from the telegraph operator:

“Take off your petticoat stop now ride me like the transcontinental railroad.”

“Oh John,” she swooned. The Western Union man stepped forward to catch her as a wave of pleasure spread outwards from her sacred wound.

What is captured in this scene is both the tension between spirituality and sexuality, between technology and distance peculiar to the Utah Mormon experience …

Bryce starts crying again. I lean back in the chair and rub my swelling belly. John still isn’t home. “Who do I need to massacre to get a bottle of gin and an abortion in this town?”

44: Wyoming

That body tied to a buck fence, beaten, bloody: a roadside scarecrow.

Scared, cowed; nobody asked and you never told. Now dress for the day. Put your camouflage on. Look in the mirror: Are you a victim or an actor? Is that a costume or a uniform? What are you fighting for? Who are you hiding from?