A Town in Nowhere
I’ve seen that same tumbleweed drift by three times today. Jesse, with more guitar strings than teeth, keeps playing the same song over and over again. He’s playing it in his sleep. I mean he’s literally snoring with his mouth open, drooling, and still playing that same riff. I’ve gotta get the hell outta this town.
We live in the West, a desert. I was born and raised here like my father, my grandfather, and my great grandfather. You get the picture. It’s at least ninety degrees out, why do we all wear such thick clothes?! The sweat stings my eyes and the sun burns my face when I look up, but every time I look up I see the silhouette of a vulture. It’s watching me and waiting for me to die; from heat stroke, dehydration, shootout, stabbing, snakebite, rabies, donkey kick, etc. There’s so many ways to die in this hell-hole. Sometimes all there is to do here is sit in the shade and think of all the different ways I might kick the bucket. Sometimes I even get that welcoming feeling, thinking of death. That kind of escape; at least an escape from here.
Every morning when the sun is rising I look out to the horizon wondering what lies past that rocky ridge in the distance. Hardly anybody ever tries to go out and see, and those who have tried haven’t come back. What’s out there? Indians? Monsters? Wolves? Hell if I know. But the more the days repeat themselves the more I feel like braving the unknown to see what’s out there. I’m not sure which is stronger: my desire to see what else is in the world or the desire to simply escape this place.
