My Little Desert Oasis

Ten years ago, it came and unleashed hell upon my little desert oasis. When I finally confronted it—striking a deal that would end its reign of terror—the missing had reached twenty-two. It may not seem like a lot, but for us that was nearly a quarter of our population which meant everyone either knew someone or loved someone now gone. With the remaining survivor’s great exodus, everyone is gone to me, loved or not. 

I park my beat-up junker—a 1972 Ford Pinto in rusted-orange, though the rust is a fairly new addition—on the shoulder of Highway 6 at the outskirts of town. Both windows are rolled down to allow the wind—hot as hell itself—to flow through the car and across my exposed arms and shoulders. The sweat rolling down the crease in my back lets me know I ain’t dead yet, and with any luck, I won’t be dead anytime soon. I watch as the breeze picks up sand and dried brush, tumbleweeds forming in real time all around me. They dance across the open vistas on their way to an eventual meeting point, where they will stack in piles. And then, when the fires roll through—and the fires will come, we are past the point of stopping those now—they will burn, and their particles will return to the ground to start the cycle over again. 

Aside from the sun, the sand, and the weeds, there is only one other fixture that catches my eye out here among the dunes. Its singular metal support beam ricochets the sun’s rays directly toward my eyes and I have to use my hand to shelter them from further damage. On top of the beam, sits a three-sided enclosure made of clear plexiglass. Ten years of the sun’s exposure will strip the color of almost anything, but I fondly remember the blue it had when it first sprang up from the ground like a weed with an evasive root. 

I check my watch; the hands spin endlessly in circles. If I stare though, I can tell the time. Nothing works the way it should anymore, not since it came, not since it devoured my little desert oasis. A minute later and the phone from hell begins to emit a shrill ring that echoes across the desert landscape. Every day, at high-noon, I’ve waited here in this exact spot for it to reach out to me. It’s the only connection to something other than myself that I have left. It has kept me sane this long, but I think the time has come for me to spread my wings. 

I’ve tried to leave before now. I let my feet carry me into open sand until I collapsed with exhaustion only to wake up alone on my sweat-soaked mattress that sits on the floor of my small house with only three walls. Once, when the phone rang, I ignored it, hoping the phone could be tricked into believing that death had taken me. But it didn’t stop ringing, ringing, ringing and eventually—to protect my sanity—I had to answer to make it stop. I’ve got one idea left; to amend the original deal I made ten years ago. 

I open my door and climb out of my little rust-orange death trap—or what many labeled the Pinto in its heyday. I stretch out with my hands first on my lower back and then on my hips as I lean side to side. There is no rush to answer. The one who awaits me on the other line isn’t going anywhere and I ain’t (can’t) either. I begin to make my way to the phone—my snakeskin boots kicking dirt clouds into the air. Two rattlers dodge my steps as they scurry by, afraid that they might be fashioned into my next pair. I pick up the phone. 

“Hello?” I say. 

On the other end, the sound of ocean waves crashing against rocks greets me as it always does. The first day I answered the phone, I thought the waves were static. But shortly after I made the original deal, I began to see visions of what lies on the other side. Now, I am in a condo along the Pacific coast, and I see and hear the waves crashing from my open window. The smell of salt hangs in the air so thick I can taste it every time I inhale. The sea breeze blowing my hair and shirt askew. I look happy, healthy, and free.  

“Hello,” it says. 

“I’ve come to amend the deal, I want out,” I say. 

“The terms of the deal are this . . .” it says. 

“I accept,” I say without hesitation because I am prepared to sacrifice anyone or anything to earn my one-way ticket out from my little desert oasis. A smile crosses my face as I hang up the phone. I make my way back to the Pinto. It’s time to return to town and prepare for the performance of my life . . . for my life.

Sixty-one minutes later I sit in the cabin of the Pinto, picking at the cloth liner of the roof, meticulously removing pieces of foam insert. It crumbles between my fingers. I watch the cracked pavement; trembling heat waves rise from the tar as the sweltering afternoon sun beats down on it. A bluish-gray Subaru Outback with out-of-state license plates—at least thirty years newer than the piece of shit I currently sit in—rumbles down the cracked highway filled with potholes that I stopped patching about five years back. Four faces search for any sign of life from behind their windows: a mother, a father, and teenage twin sisters.