1. Be very, very kind to yourself. Your worth is not determined by your pay check, never has been, never will be. It is not your fault and you are doing the best you can. Torturing yourself is a misery-causing waste of energy. Unemployment is a mind game on a certain level, facing every empty day with just yourself to guide you, it is hard and confusing and demoralizing. Be nice and take care of yourself. All of your emotions are important and must be felt, everything your body is saying needs to be acknowledged. Sleep, eat, cry “too much” if that’s what you need, and then move on.
2. Opportunity! Take advantage of the free time to pursue long neglected interests. Personal enrichment is your new job. Find community activities of interest and go to them. Cook elaborate meals, start your memoir, take walks, whatever. Keeping busy is crucial. Though employed people saying they’re jealous of your free time is obnoxious (what is free about the time you spend wracked with worry, guilt and uncertainty?), it is true that fun, enjoyable, free opportunities abound and now’s a good time to do them.
3. Make structure. Make a schedule and stick to it. Working on job and money stuff is essential, everyday, but make it a discreet amount of time. Spend a couple hours job searching, applying, planning, following up, and then STOP and fill the rest of your schedule with other activities, projects, pursuits. There is only so much you can do to towards finding a job, so do that, and then don’t worry about it. Making and keeping a concrete schedule of activities does wonders for warding off the demons of doubt and fear.
4. Ask for Help. Ask for what you need. Ask friends to help keep you busy and distracted, ask around about job opportunities, ask about free food, transportation, whatever. Every single time I actually voiced a need, people responded generously and warmly.
5. Follow every red herring. I made it my policy to follow up with every possible job opportunity that anyone told me about. This was often ridiculous and unhelpful, but it was very important for me to say that I Had Tried Everything. And it was often interesting just in terms of experience and getting to know my community.
6. Fake job. Do ask for help, but not all the time. People are very well intentioned but sometimes it is not useful emotionally or practically to hear their inane suggestions for finding work, especially when you know you are following up with what you can within your allotted “working on finding work” time. BUT asking “what do you do?” is usually the second question (after what is your name?) that a stranger will ask you. Often saying “unemployed” feels gross and needy and desperate. Make up a job. I was mostly a freelance writer, but sometimes a volunteer coordinator. I was doing many great things that I wasn’t getting paid for, so I made that my identity. Your worth is not determined by what you do for money.
7. Don’t listen to the news. Everything on the news will only make you feel worse, with the perverse but slightly satisfying exception of the twinge of solidarity with the masses of other desperate souls already adrift, holding on to bits of floating rubble watching the sinking ship of the nation. It’s nice to know you’re not alone, but that slim comfort is not offset by the panic.
8. Vacation from unemployment. Even though you’re “not working” being unemployed is exhausting and awful and tedious. Just like scheduling other things into your day, schedule vacation. Not for long times (as potential employers may get back to you) but take a weekend out of town and Don’t Think About Jobs At All. It is essential to have breaks, rest, time to regroup and restore energy and You Deserve It, don’t let anyone (or especially yourself) say that you don’t.
9. Deal with the dark cloud. I’m a procrastinator and things like budgeting, figuring out finances would hang over my head for weeks. It was always 1,000 times easier to confront and deal with than put off and vaguely worry about. On that note, it is useful and feels good to make a budget, reduce payments when possible (call all the utilities, insurance, phone companies), see how little you can spend. It is liberating to see how little you actually Need to spend, and takes pressure off finding a job.
10. Make goals and progress in other areas of your life. It’s the uncertainty that gets you. And though employment determines a lot of a person’s life (time and sometimes location, other decisions, housing etc) I came to a point where I just had to make decisions because the limbo was making me crazy. Sometimes it feels like a gamble, but I do think there are goals, projects or decisions that can be advanced even without knowing where you’ll be working. And it feels really good to be moving forward and taking control of something.

I’m not even going to include this in the list because it doesn’t make any sense when you’re in the middle of unemployment- but It Is Going To Be OK. Trust your skills, your efforts, your social networks. Trust that there will be help when you need it, and a job at the end of the tunnel. Try not to despair, though sending out hundreds of cover letters, it only takes one job, and you will get it, just in the knick of time.

]]> http://nightbloomingcactus.wordpress.com/2009/04/06/surviving-unemployment/feed/ 1 mjmontes http://nightbloomingcactus.wordpress.com/2009/01/30/things-i-love-about-tucson/ http://nightbloomingcactus.wordpress.com/2009/01/30/things-i-love-about-tucson/#comments Fri, 30 Jan 2009 02:18:33 +0000 mjmontes http://nightbloomingcactus.wordpress.com/?p=58 ]]>

baby mariachis

murals

m

my new room

The Buildup

Perhaps Full Sail’s LTD is not so exciting to people who harken from the left coast where, I’ve come to imagine, microbrews grow on trees like heavy, juicy apples. I don’t know much about Full Sail. I think it’s a small brewery, like many others, an amazing businesses full of creative, conscientious people who make delicious beer. A beer lover has many options in these remarkable times when every town of a certain size and demographic (some sort of coalescence of yuppies and hippies, a Do it Yourself crowd with more education and taste than money) has a local brewery. Many of them are operated cooperatively or with zero emissions and a handful of other admirable commitments. This is how I justify my faithful of consumption of microbrews even in these lean financial times.

LTD, however, is special. My Dad and I discovered LTD last fall, while I was home for a spell in Missoula. I think we bought it all the time, because for weeks it was on sale at Orange Street Food Farm. It was also on sale sometimes at Albertsons. It is delicious and has a higher than average alcohol content. Price, taste, proof: all important factors in choosing a beer.

And then LTD goes above and beyond with a bonus feature- underneath all the caps are little sayings, acronyms from LTD. By far the most common and desirable: Live The Dream. Every time you snap open a cold LTD and peek under the cap and it says Live The Dream, you just can’t help taking a moment to reflect and verify that, yes indeed, the dream is being lived.

But it is also delightful that you never know what your cap will say: Lobster Tastes Divine, Love Them Dreadlocks, Lou’s Telekinetic Delivery, Lust Trumps Danger, Logic Twists Discourse… Am I forgetting one? Very clever. Very, very clever. (I should also add that LTD has a funny box, so you can even be entertained reading the packaging, still more bonus points.)

AND the plot thickens! LTD actually stands for Limited, limited edition lager. You know what that means! You can’t always get it! My Dad and I determined that so far there are two types of LTD, two recipes, 1 and 2. We have no idea what the time frame for distribution is for each of these recipes. We had grown to love Recipe 2, hitherto referred to as Orange kind (for its label color), and every time we went to the story it was with a certain trepidation that Orange would run out, and then what would we drink? What other beer could offer us the same perfect combination of economy, taste and witty bottle caps. From time to time there would be a delay in shipping, or for whatever marketing reason, there would be no LTD at the store when went. Oh the horror! Usually, another store would have Orange though, or in a few days the flow would be restored. But it did and does keep us on our toes. One time we bought multiple cases at The Good Food Store as it appeared to be the last of the LTD in the store if not in the whole city of Missoula (also it was on sale). We packed the mini-fridge at his new shop and tried to ration them. But any good thing must be enjoyed, and so in short order we had consumed our emergency stash of Orange.

This was about the time I left Montana. I thereafter looked for LTD in every store I came across. I traveled city to city up the west coast and then flew to Minneapolis, then Arizona. I didn’t always have occasion to buy beer or be in a grocery store. But I did enjoy Orange in Santa Cruz, California and Portland, Oregon. But after Seattle I begin to have problems finding LTD. Sometimes places in Minnesota and Arizona would carry Full Sail but not LTD. This was distressing because I enjoy the beer and because 26% of things I talk about with my Dad consists of what our bottle caps say (the other topics being: Luna the Dog and her Antics 44%, whatever we’re doing Right Then 14%, things we’re thinking about doing later 16%).

I have come to settle in Tucson, AZ and I began to explore different stores in an informal search. In the meantime, the LTD supply in Missoula, where my Dad had continued to be a regular fan, had shifted from Limited Orange, to Recipe number 1, the Green kind. My Dad reported to me the subtleties of this new flavor and of course, the messages under the caps.

It wasn’t until I stumbled into an unknown store in an unknown corner of my new city, drawn there by a weekly bluegrass jam, that I found LTD Green! I, of course, immediately bought a 6-pack and reported to my Dad. Miracle of Miracles, someone carries LTD in Arizona! But not only that- this little store had Green AND Orange! I promised Dad whenever I got settled in (I was couch surfing at the time) I would taste them both, since we only had our fond fall memories of Orange to compare to this new winter Green. And really, we had to be more scientific than that when it came to finding the Ultimate Beer Experience.

So after many moons, I finally found my own place, but couldn’t ever seem to get around to getting back to that little store. My Dad wheedled me- What if the Orange runs out at the new store too?! You have to get back there soon, before we lose this breach in the space time continuum, this moment and place where the parallel LTD universes collide, and surely only temporarily will it be possible to buy BOTH the Orange and the Green simultaneously.

I knew my Dad was right, but buying 2 6 packs of beer did seem a little extravagant considering the economic straits I found myself passing through. However, TODAY, on a meandering and exploratory ride on my new bike, I accidentally found myself back at that little store. I went in with the intention of just confirming the continuing existence of both Orange and Green. I entered the store with that old trepidation- will the LTD have run out?

But No! The LTD remained, but only the Orange! Oooh, the wormhole had closed, I missed the opportunity for a simultaneous tasting of both Orange and Green… But wait, what’s this? I peered deep into the refrigerator shelf- there was Green 6 pack behind the Orange. AND in fact, these 2 lonely 6 packs were the only LTD left. The last LTD in Arizona! The Orange and Green taste test will coalesce after all! I impulsively bought both 6 packs of beer and gleefully exited the store to remember… my bike. That’s right, a long hot walk (because it is hot in Arizona even in January) awkwardly schlepping my bike and all that beer awaited me. But I’m pleased to announce I did not break even one. And am determined to actually ration my precious LTD supply this time.

THE TASTE TASTE

And now, without further ado— we come to the Great LTD Taste Off! It is only 4:31 pm right now, but I did do some work today and my orchestra rehearsal was canceled and it was really a very long hot walk back to the house… (consumption of beer before 5:00 must always be vigilantly considered and rationalized).

Let me state for the record that I have no particular skill at tasting things or describing tastes. I don’t aspire to be a food writer, nor do I claim to have especially good taste or judgment in general… Ok, proceed.

First, and most importantly, what do the caps say…

LIVE THE DREAM!

Perfect score.

Then, what’s the color like… Hm, it seems Green is darker in color. Both are cold and fizzy in just the right way. Nice pour. And…

The TASTE!

Hmmmm.

Hmmmmm.

Well….

I really like BOTH of these beers! Officially, both Orange and Green are utterly scrumptious. Let me try to articulate– Green is smokier, chocolatey. Orange is kind of caramel-y. Both are bittersweet in just the right way.

As I settled down to this conundrum of having to determine The Ultimate Beer, I find myself reaching instinctively for Orange. I should disclose that I tend to favor not too dark beers- I won’t, by choice, consume a stout or porter (only if you make me ) And it seems that I unwittingly finished the Orange first even though they were sitting an equal distance from me. But as soon as I finished the Orange, I with equal gusto and delight finished the Green.

So I would have to call this Taste Off a draw, granting Orange a couple of style and nostalgia points that would ultimately give it a slight lead. I would buy either of these in a store any day. Unfortunately, it appears I have just purchased the last 2 LTD 6 packs of any flavor in the whole state. So Dad, you are really the final victor- though I may prefer Orange slightly (probably principally because of all of the beers I shared with you), it is you that can still purchase Green any (every other) day of the week.

Cheers.

and Live The Dream!

i’m housesitting in a new place!  with a kitty! in tucson!  the opposite in many ways to oracle.  i’m in love with tucson.  i spend hours exploring the neighborhood.  crumbling old adobe buildings.  this town fascinates me in so many ways.

this kitty likes to sleep under the covers!

and then there was a christmas snow storm in arizona.  and even though it’s arizona and the snow immediately melted and the sun came out and resumed 60 degree temperatures…  it was nice nonetheless!

my foxy new hat.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Though I have to admit it does seem a little miraculous and sci fi to check my email from a car.  On the list of Things That Were Beyond My Wildest Dreams.  And I don’t really envy my urban loved ones who roll out of bed and plug into Cyberlandia.  Though not convenient, it is a little bit more my style to do things in a slower, more awkward, cheaper and unsaavy way.   I value that mostly I’m disconnected (from the internet, from the buzz, the trends, the hip soul-sucking nonesense), even though that means I don’t feel connected…

Another car just pulled up, so now we sit in our seperate cars, cyber bubbles, 10 feet apart in this rainy parking lot, communicating to some great, mysterious, fast moving other universe.  I tried to wave.  And he paid no attention to me.  Real life’s got nothing on its virtual cousin.

all my love.

I saw my first rattlesnake while pulled over, engine steaming, on the gravel of the picnic table rest stop memorializing Tom Mix, a purportedly famous cowboy who had driven off into this desert and died. In the very spot I was standing, I could only imagine.  The plaque wasn’t very specific. 

As far as the eye could see, cactus, dry gnarled shrubs and sharp, peeled-looking mountains in any direction.  Beyond the picnic tables No Trespassing signs dotted the landscape. The rattlesnake greeted me from a warm rock nook just a few feet away from the memorial I had been reading about Tom Mix’s tragic and mysterious death.  I backed slowly away from the snake.  Smooth and gray, curled and moving at the same time; menacing and vulnerable. 

I backed away and leaned on my car, my home and whole world on this trip; my little mini universe that I carried about with me, like a snail. I mixed radiator fluid and water in an old milk jug and opened the cap slowly with my hand wrapped in rags.  I welcomed the sun’s retreat, the heat was insufferable, but with the darkness and the rattlesnake sighting, every sound began to feel dangerous.  Who knew what twisted, fanged creatures lurked in the Arizona night.   

I watched the sky change colors and remembered a time four years ago when I was equally uprooted and tumbling, like a dry and brittle bush blowing across the desert.  A similar sunset, similarly stranded, but at a different latitude and longitude, a different ecosystem.  That was the beginning of the rainy chapter, Seattle; a new start in a new city with a new relationship.  New hopes for that perpetually damp corner of the country, that slowly grew moldy, (including the camping gear!) in the drizzle. 

I guess I knew the relationship was limping into its last lap.  I had started wearing un-matching, unflattering ensembles to bed, assortments of striped sweaters I’d scavenged at thrift stores.  Matt never said anything.  He was an avoider of conflict to the point of neurosis.  We never fought really, he never gave me a chance.  Like some sort of super sensitive canine, he sensed my anger or even mild disagreement, long before thoughts or actions or words had formed in me. He would back peddle into a defense-able compromise zone, the great neutral plateau established by our past treaties and cease fires.  I saw the retreat in his eyes long before I knew he was cheating. 

Four years is a long time to be with someone and not have anything to show for it.  No kids or pets or messiness demonstrating that life had happened there, that commitments had been made, discoveries, mistakes, sure, but real life-altering changes at least.  Our relationship was like the too drawn out prelude to a real relationship.  We had all the boredom and comfort of an elderly couple, but none of the risk, none of the glory of having actually shared a life together. 

It was the living I was missing.  This only occurred to me after 2 days of drinking myself into an oblivion 9-10 hours a day, after 3 days of weeping and stalking the streets, after several memorable hours of screaming and throwing dramatic yet unbreakable objects unable to inflict pain, like pillows and heads of lettuce, while Matt cowered and cried and was probably the most miserable he had ever been in his life.  He deserves it, I thought, he deserves every ill-fated, wretched, unspeakable thing that happens to him from here on out. 

And I, I just felt stupid, betrayed, and like I had wasted time. I decided I was going to run away.  Drive my old car straight south until all I could see was blue sky and desert.  Slip across the border, find a beach some where and let the ocean scrape me clean.   Let locals seduce me, let them buy me shots of tequila.  Conveniently, Matt and I had recently moved into a new place and my worldly possessions were still carefully boxed and now they were stacked in a friend’s basement.  The kitchen things, some books, the pathetic rubble of our shared life, he could keep.  I figured I’d get out of town until I thought of a good reason to come back.  Until I had done some things I’d been meaning to do for a long time

I understood how a radiator worked- when the temperature of your car engine reaches 190 degrees the thermostat triggers the release of coolant through this series of hoses that run between the radiator, engine and heater, so that the metal in your engine doesn’t get so hot that it fuses together, rendering it into, what I imagined to be, one solid lump of steaming molten metal.   I knew this because I was on a very long road trip in a very old car.  A 1982 Honda Civic to be precise.  It seemed to have a radiator leak.  Though the crooked car mechanics from Boise to Flagstaff, had diagnosed and re-diagnosed different ailments in my car (the variety of opinions and exorbitant rates had made it abundantly clear they actually have no idea).  I got along just fine pouring the occasional quart of oil or gallon of coolant into the car and hoping for the best.  I had garnered a healthy understanding of the four stroke internal combustion engine, in an attempt to avoid getting swindled.  That worked until I hit the vast expanse of Sonoran Desert. 

Because my car was in precarious shape, I was hyper aware of its every noise, defect and temperament.  I listened to my car, the pitch of the engine, I smelled the air, I was alert for the next disaster. I had the habit of coasting down hills in neutral, I pushed in the clutch whenever I could.  Saving gasoline, I told myself.  But also I imagined the engine’s days were numbered and perhaps every second I saved it from being engaged and grinding away (it was mere metal after all), the longer it would last. 

My concept of how my car worked also included theories about its desires and motivations, love and encouraging words.  My car had belts, hoses and moods.  It had been overheating, ever so slightly, all day long, coinciding with leaving Las Vegas and crossing into Arizona.  I wasn’t sure what that meant.  I had hit Phoenix at midday, dust and airborne contaminants suspended in the super heated air.  The sun radiated off car roofs, stopped and sweltering in endless lines of traffic.  The radio said 115 degrees.  My addled, heat stroke brain couldn’t calculate the actual temperature within my un-air conditioned car, like an aluminum roasting pan in a scorching oven.

Finally passed the city, having consumed 72 icy ounces of 7-11 soda, I regained enough sense to realize my car was in perilous condition.   I pulled over on the two lane highway, fifty miles of cactus and moon planet in any direction from anything, to dump coolant into the car.  There’s part of me that enjoys leaning on my car on the side of the road, poking around under the hood while traffic rushes by.  Women who fix cars are sexy and powerful.  I felt some of that, and some nervous desperation and some self conscious uncertainty. I mixed coolant and water, poured it in the reservoir and eventually, as the sun sunk into the arms of the mountains, into the steaming radiator itself. 

Ah these idle roadside memories.  It was easy to feel forlorn, watching the silhouettes of thorns and dead branches, the sharp yellow deepening into red, then darkness.  Who would know I was here, perched on the edge of this country?  This is where they find bodies of hopeful migrants, dried in the sun, picked at by coyotes.  The rattlesnake had retreated to his secret hideout.  I banished memories of Matt and lonely fears that had snuck in, slinking like hungry dogs and drove on.      

It wasn’t too long before I reached the sprawling edge of the next city.  I coasted through layers of strip malls and new houses painted dirt colors, as though they wanted to blend in to the hills they had invaded.   Oracle Road slid into town like storm run off, downhill into a deep pool of light.  Cruising down a curve flanked with houses, my car suddenly was unable to shift into gear.  Somewhere between third and fourth, something deep within the car had changed and now I coasted only by the goodwill of the incline and momentum of the car.  I later learned that my clutch had become unadjusted, seizing up as the cable stretched due to the newly excruciating engine heat from all the coolant pouring out my tattered radiator hose.  Chain reactions are very easy to follow in cars.  In my life too, for better or worse, one thing seems to always end up leading to another. 

And thus I found myself stranded in Tucson.  My car, which was my whole life at this juncture; my escape route, my house, my only ally, was smoking and broken.  I coasted the steaming unresponsive machine into a parking lot.  I didn’t have the momentum to slide all the way into a spot, so had to push the car about eight feet into place.  Cars are very heavy hunks of metal.  It is unbelievable that we go whisking around in them all day long.  Like riding around on a dinosaur; massive, destructive beasts we barely understand.  I maneuvered the car into a parking space, pushing and straining, half bent over, steering with one hand, the weight of the car falling to my right shoulder and my struggling but ineffectual left hand.  I had the pragmatic determination of one facing a crisis situation, and I didn’t notice I had sprained my shoulder until after the car was resting in the parking place.

My mind was racing through lists of suggestions, Plan A, Plan B.  This frantic inventory of options interrupted by jagged shudders and prayers, “I really need this car- oh God not the car!” There were pleas and negotiations,  “Oh if this is a test, just ah, help me.  Goodness, I need a miracle, I need a miraculous mechanically inclined elf to come bounding across this parking lot.  I need a Good Samaritan.  A sign. A safety net. Oh please, not the car!” 

I began filling my backpack with items that could be deemed steal-able or that I could need in the next 48 hours: toothbrush, passport, clean underwear, a picked over bag of snack food, camera.  On closer inspection the car was clearly parked in a space with a large sign that read: No Trespassing, Residents of Desert Sunset Apartments Only.” I wrote a note and left it on the dash board: “Please don’t tow my car. A mechanic is coming in the morning. If you need me to move it call 406-555-4479.  THANKS!”

I stumbled out into the well lit strip mall, trying to calculate my next move. Though I had been on the road only two weeks, I felt very changed, a little gaunt and malnourished, stretched, road wizened.  Like some chain smoking pilgrim, I drove, free from my earthly ties, searching for the divine with amazed, blood shot eyes.  I felt every mile of that distance from my old life.  The hours by myself with only my salvaged 90s cassette tapes (Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, Tiffany), had driven me deep into memory and kitschy nostalgia.  The days of only conversing with my inner monologue and perceiving the passing world through caffeine and disorientation, strengthened my inner satirist, and I began to feel I was trapped in a convoluted, bizarre but amusing theatrical production, in which my role was Angry Woman in Crowd stage left, or a bitter stagehand who can barely contain her sarcasm. 

Traveling required an exaggerated sense of self esteem and a sort of fortitude, a fortifying of ones defenses against all dangers real and imagined.  I had been hit on by truckers in six states, talked to my mom two times on the phone, and grumbled at waitresses, but otherwise I was lacking in social interaction.  Could dogs, go feral?  Could they un-domesticate themselves from lack of human contact, growing increasingly tangled and snarl-y, eating only Slim Jims?  I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window and cringed.  Oh, if Matt could see me now!

I had to call a friend.  I knew Karen from college, she was a great friend then, so we remained courteous and warm, occasionally emailing, though in truth it had been years since we had spoken or seen each other.  I had written to a couple of long lost friends who were along my travel route, vaguely saying: “I had to get out of town, maybe passing through, we should get a beer, can I sleep on your couch?”  Karen hadn’t responded, and I hadn’t planned on bothering her.  But I knew under the circumstances I would be warmly received.

In the rosy glow of the street lights, I sifted through bits of paper, phone numbers and vital information clumsily rubber banded together.  I dialed Karen on my cell phone.

“Hi there, uh, Karen?” I stammered, I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Margaret.  From college, from the cafeteria. You know.”  Karen and I knew each other from our years of dumping cans of tomatoes into enormous steel cauldrons in the school cafeteria kitchen. It was the worst job I had ever had.

“Oh my gosh, hey, that’s right, I remember you wrote you were coming through town.  I didn’t really understand how long you would be around. What’s up?”

 “Well, I can’t make it sound any worse than it is, I found out my boyfriend of four years was cheating with this girl from his office.  So I’m letting him wallow in the wreckage of our life together while I drive to Mexico to have sex with strangers on the beach.”  I accidentally caught the eye of a middle aged man carrying his groceries to his car.  I shrugged, he raised his eyebrow, I turned and walked in the opposite direction.

“Come over. Where are you?” I knew I could count on Karen.

“Um, yeah. My car broke down.  I’m teetering on the edge. And I think I sprained my shoulder.  Do you have any beer on hand or should I step into this store?”  I tried to make this sound nonchalant and humorous, but my words were pinched by the threat, in the back of my throat, of despondent tears.

“I’ll come right now to get you.”

Karen pulled up in a new but badly damaged silver car. 

“Geez, what did you crash into?” I said, pulling her into a hug.  Karen had sprouted gray hair since I had seen her last.  She looked older, wider.  She looked like she had crossed successfully into that strange illusive country, Married Life.

“Yeah. You won’t believe it. How long have you been in Arizona? Like a day? There are these things called javelinas.  They are wild pigs.  They are these enormous, savage, hairy wild pigs.  They live in the desert, but they also lurk around town because they like garbage and compost piles.” Karen was on a roll, acting out different monstrous expressions and postures of these seemingly mythical beasts,  “Mean things too. I’ve run across a pack of them at night. I get out of their way.  Jerry, you know, my husband, he’s friends with this biologist guy, he says that javelinas are incredibly intelligent, second only to dolphins.”

“To dolphins! Dolphins are really smart!” I objected.

“I know. I’m skeptical. But anyway, I crashed into one.  Killed it, but you can see it did plenty of damage in its last stand.” The whole front driver’s side of Karen’s car was a mash of thin twisted metal and dangling pieces.  It looked unfit to drive.

“Karen, I’m not even going to ask you if you know any mechanics.”

She laughed.  “Yeah, a real good one. A real knowledgeable yet reasonable guy.  If your problem is relatively simple he’ll fix it right there in the parking lot. Is that where your car is?” she glanced around as though she herself would be able to fix my car if she could just get her hands on it. 

“Yeah, I think it’s safe for tonight. Do you think this guy could look at it tomorrow?”  I didn’t want to revisit my car, I felt guilty and anxious, as though my car was a suffering friend I’d coldly turned my back on.

“We’ll call him.  I have to warn you. His name is Zulu.  He’s this enormous black dude who basically pirates time and tools from this towing company he works for.  So he has this tow truck which officially the towing company would charge you hundreds for, but he’ll do it under the table for $20.  A very decent fellow.  In think he’s from Ethiopia maybe, there’s all sorts of African refugees around here.”

“I certainly don’t care where he’s from as long as he can fix my car.  It doesn’t seem like he’s done a very good job on yours though.”

“Oh, he has to search junk yards for a panel piece to replace this part of the car body.  It’ll just take a bit of time.  I’m hoping he finds some really wild color that will clash with the rest of the car.  Make me feel a bit more controversial.  I am not very controversial,” she said this like an apology, she looked at me with a tenuous smile, like she wanted forgiveness for growing up and abandoning our wild college days; forsaking the memory of our unruly, more bewildered, young selves through the act of driving a new car.     

“I’m certain that controversy is overrated.” I returned her smile and felt a wave of relief at having stumbled into friendly and familiar waters after a long, lonely and turbulent journey.  “It’s really good to see you, it’s really weird to see you!  Thank you for coming to my rescue,”

 “No sweat.  We’ll see what Zulu’s up to tomorrow. Lets get a beer,”  suggested Karen.  We both climbed in the passenger’s side as her door was too mutilated to open.

We drove directly to a bar called the Wild Horse Tavern, a hole in the wall that sported a 5 ft tall statue of a bucking horse.  We both pantomimed climbing on it and getting bucked off.  The bartender smirked as though every person that walked through the door did that exact same thing every time.  Karen filled me in on her last few years, getting married, settling in, the subtle turbulence of adulthood.  I wasn’t sure if I felt envy, pity or just sadness, a deep tired sadness.  Finally, I couldn’t avoid it any longer.

“ I’m fleeing the wreckage of a breakup.  I wish it were otherwise. I wish I had a better tale to recount. I wish I had exploits and adventures to wow you with.  I wish you weren’t seeing me in, basically, yeah, I can’t think of another more low and desperate moment.” 

“I’m so sorry Margaret. Well, then it’s all up from here.” She tipped her beer bottle to mine.  “Was this still,” she searched for a name she would have only heard mentioned once or twice in an email.

“Matt, yeah. It’s stupid, I feel stupid just talking about it.  But yes, I broke up with my boyfriend of four years and now I’m running away to Mexico. To drown my sorrows.” I waved my hands with exaggerated exasperation, it stung less if I made it sound absurd, comical.

“Well, I’m sure that will bring pleasant surprises and unexpected healing.” She knew I was being facetious and knew she needed to be supportive nonetheless.

“Yeah, I just need to get away for awhile.  It feels nice. Reckless and scary, but generally it’s exhilarating just to cut bait and let it all go.  I wish I could say it had been a clean break. No, it’s been awful every single minute, but I think this was only way I could have dealt with it.  I can’t imagine being there right now, sharing the same streets with him, maybe risking running into him at the store. Yuck, no, I can’t do it.  I want to be totally unknown for a while.  I want a clean slate.”

“Yeah, clean slate.  It’s not often a person can really escape it all.  I’m happy for you.  I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me too.  Me too.” I sighed and slumped slightly.  My shoulder ached. It had been a discouraging day.  “You know what?” I sucked in a breath, straightened my spine, stretched and cracked my neck.  “I am going to flirt with a stranger.” Karen smiled and glanced conspiratorially around the bar. “I have been driving and crying for a long time, I would like to make some conversation.”  I flashed my most mischievous smile.  I maneuvered towards the bar to get us more drinks, surveying the room on the way. 

Leaning against a pillar half way between the tables and where the band would soon begin to play, was the Red Hat boy.  I named him that as I reported to Karen. 

“Red Hat Boy at 4 o’clock,” I whispered and pointed.  He looked a little strained, he was muscular and looked too big for the space he was trying to occupy.  His jeans were baggy and his white T-shirt pressed unsubtly against his strong chest.  His hair was sandy brown and just to his chin.  You could not see his eyes for the pulled down hat brim. “I’m going in.  I’ll bring you constant reports.”  I slid out of the booth and traversed the bar once again.  I made B-line towards Red Hat.

 “Hey” I said, stepping towards his pillar.

“Hey,” he replied, tilted up his hat brim.  Eyes, check.

“So is there a band playing later?”

“Yeah, these friends of mine.  It’s kind of, like,” he paused, searching for the right words, “thrasher metal.”

“Oh.”  He seemed sort of clumsy and genuine.  He fixed his beautiful eyes on mine. He was definitely a carpenter or a ball player or something else where he acquired effortlessly this self assured strength.  He worked with his hands.  “I don’t suppose you’re a mechanic,”  I inquired leaning slightly, despite myself, towards his muscular shoulder.   Just to rest for a minute on that strong shoulder, just to have someone else fix it.  I dreamily drifted off.

“Well I worked for a bit in a shop,”   he grinned, innocently enough.

“I’m gonna,” I gestured with my empty beer bottle towards the bar. “You’re sticking around for the band right?”

“Yeah, I’ll catch you in a bit,” he grinned, not so innocently.

Back in the booth I recounted the conversation to Karen.  When she learned the upcoming band was “thrasher metal” she began to lay the foundation for her exit. 

“That sounds totally promising, Margaret.  I’m not sure that I can linger all night while you bring in the kill though,” she shrugged apologetically.  “I support you 100%, he looks cute!  Let me give you a key to my house and you just come in whenever you need to.”  I swear she winked.  Karen drew me a map to her house and headed out.  I dawdled for a bit more, but also was eager to move things along to avoid being subjected to the night’s entertainment.  I veered towards the bar in a trajectory that passed within feet of Red Hat.  I caught his attention and he waved me over.

“Well it’s good to meet you,” he shrugged, shuffled his feet slightly.

“Does that mean you’re leaving?”

“Yeah, gotta go take care of some things”

“What things?” I asked, coating my words with flirtation, stepping in, tilting head.

“Top secret, girl,” he touched arm, leaned in, smiled, “so do I get your number?”

“Oh sure, yeah. I mentioned that I don’t live here right?”

“Right,” he said, obviously not remembering. “Right, where do you live again?”

“Well, I used to live in Idaho, but see I’m on this road trip.”

“Oh cool, I know Idaho,”  he straightened up, shifted to story telling mode.

“You do?” I asked quizzically, people usually have very specific reasons or certain purposes for knowing Idaho.

“Yeah, I went to high school in Bisbee, Arizona, so we used to play a couple towns in Idaho for baseball.”  Ah yes, he did have the body of a baseball player.

“Oh, so Arizona born and raised?” I asked sweetly.  I was charmed, I was being charming.

“No, I’ve lived all over. My Dad was in the Army.” He listed off about 12 bases in 7 states. 

“So here’s my number,” I said.  I offered it to him on the back of a receipt: oranges ½ lb, Bud Light 12 pack, 1 can beans. “Give me a call sometime.”

“How about tonight?  How about in a couple of hours?” He looked at the number, looked at me, looked at me That Way.

“Um, I will eventually go to sleep though. I mean how late are we talking?” I was feeling drugged and slightly nauseous.  But this clearly could be an opportunity to get to know someone new, handsome, and maybe kiss him a little bit, and maybe he would save me from drowning, maybe he would see that I was drowning.  In hindsight, I probably should have deduced that he did not have entirely friendly intentions.  Perhaps I should have realized he had exclusively sex on his mind and I was virtually offering myself up to him on his timeframe, on his terms, like a woman for hire.

“I don’t know, just an hour or two,” he said, “I’ll call you, if you’re awake we’ll hang out.”

I glanced at the clock as he departed, tall muscular frame, heavy work boots.  It was 12:45.  At 2:00 the bars closed.  I could watch the next set of the band then start home.  If he called before I got to Karen’s house, then well, may as get to know him, see what happens; if not, too bad.  I made some rules up in my head: just hang out, talk some more, Do Not got to his house, Do Not sleep with him, and no matter what Do Not have sex. 

I stepped out onto the patio as the thrasher metal droned on.  My thoughts, despite trying to derail the cycle, leapt from my car, stalled out and lifeless, to Matt probably walking home in the rain at that moment, to the Red Hat boy, to the Arizona night that was warm and starry. My poor car, I imagined the clutch gears had ground together, my clutch assembly plates overheated and grinding, unable to move the car forward, my life, a broken down car.  Maybe he’s a mechanic, I thought.  Maybe this is happening for a Reason. 

I left as the last band was winding down and bartenders had begun to be more reluctant about serving people. I was tired and bored and set out into the unknown city, the wind smelling of light rain on mesquite and creosote bushes in the desert. I had my cell phone in my pocket in case Ret Hat called. 

Drunk and unsteady I cut through the yards and alleys, navigating with Karen’s napkin map.  At last I found her little house and struggled with the strange door.  Karen had left a light on, a note and a pile of blankets on a comfortable couch.  I laid down, my shoulder tingling and painful from pushing my car, My Car!  I drifted off to sleep with the intermittent spasms of stressed muscles beginning to relax.  Half hour later, from deep within the post-drunk dreams, I heard the phone ring.  Disoriented and startled I had the presence of mind to step into the night to avoid waking Karen.  When I put the phone back to my ear, he was prematurely typing a text message: R U Up?  I called him back, “Where can I meet you?”

I got a little lost in the dark residential streets of this new city.  Many roads seem to dwindle down to dusty alleys then abruptly end in a patch of desert.  Now what precisely would inspire me to get in stranger’s car at 4 am 2,000 miles from home? Part of traveling was a reckless faith that following the whims of destiny was the only true way to navigate the course.  A little rash and exhilarating, like getting the taste for gambling and not knowing when to stop.  There was also a revenge motive to my self destruction.  I wanted to hurt myself to hurt Matt. I hurt, I wanted Matt to hurt.  And it was in part because I couldn’t see myself anymore, my identity, dreams and desires had gotten all muddled up with Matt’s.  I felt dependent, incapable, numb.  I wanted to cut myself, shock myself awake.  I felt I was falling and was invincible because I hadn’t hit the ground yet.  There was also a certain hopefulness in my desperation.  Wouldn’t all my problems be solved if I found some kind and capable arms, a sympathetic soul with mechanical ability?

By the time I found him parked at the intersection of the only two major streets I could remember the names of, he had dozed off in the driver’s seat.  I felt appalled at his indifference, then thought, well it’s late, and it did take me 20 minutes to walk here.  I saw the Jesus-fish decal on the bumper of his beat up red Honda as I passed behind the car to open the passenger door. He was still attractive close up in this new, not bar setting. 

“Do you smoke,” he said, offering a Marlboro. 

“Thanks.”  He has to hot wire the car to start it, I had never seen that before up close.  The door handles were ripped off and it roared and sputtered down the road, barely functioning.  This was not the mechanic I wanted, I made a mental note. 

There was an actual, real Bible propped open on the dashboard to the Book of Mathew.  It looked sun-bleached and dry.  That was not only absurd, it’s blasphemous, I thought.  There was an enormous painting of Jesus on a CD swinging from his rear view mirror. 

“So what are you into? What do you do?” I asked. I wasn’t sure where this would lead.

“Apprentice plumber.” 

“Plumbing is totally essential.”  It was interesting he felt no need to explain the Bible which practically in my lap, I could almost read in the fuzzy, shifting artificial light of the streets.    

Red Hat talked about how he liked the outdoors, the music scene.  He asked me if I do drugs, hard drugs. 

“My motto is try everything once, and in everything, moderation.” I replied, trying to think of something not controversial, something noncommittal. 

“Speed, you like speed?”

“Mmmm, I like relaxing things.” 

“Yeah you seem pretty laid back,” he said, looking me over. We rushed through the neon glow of old hotels: Smugglers Inn, Tiki Motel, The Oasis, The Come On Inn. “Crack? We could get some crack right now and try it out,” he said, glancing at me, at the road, back at me. 

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.  “No, I will not do crack and I will not do meth, there is something very very wrong with crack and meth.”  Red Hat tried to disguise his disappointment.

We passed into a neighborhood with more crumbling concrete, broken windows, a couple pushed a shopping cart.  I felt adrift, as though watching myself from a great distance.  I wondered what Matt was doing.  I felt and mean and angry, rebellious, won’t he feel bad if I wind up dead in a ditch, I felt the thrill of doing something he would totally disapprove of, foolish and dangerous.  Behind the spiteful satisfaction, welled the sadness.  I really don’t like this Red Hat boy, I pouted to myself.  Matt and I had had some hard times but at least he had known me.  In his way, in some moments, he really had known me. 

“So do you like Topless Bars?” Red Hat grinned, looked at me, the road, back at me.

“I’ve never actually been to a Topless Bar.”  Did he really just say that? Oh. My. God. Who takes a girl they just met to a Topless Bar?  Or any girl? Ever? What does that even mean?  In the surreal pre-dawn I felt repulsive and wretched.  Instead of tempering the all-consuming blaze of longing and anger for Matt, this stupid, offensive boy made him loom large and benevolent by comparison.  Memories of Matt were more present and painful in sheer contrast to current company. I scrambled to think of any subject other than Topless Bars to talk about.

“I guess you’re into the Jesus thing.” I gestured to the Bible, pages flapping slightly in the wind from the car windows. 

“Oh yeah, he’s my inspiration, my strength, he’s my homeboy, my best friend.  Yeah, I’m kind of a Jesus freak,” he admitted, “though I’m no straight arrow.”

“That’s obvious,” I said. 

“So it’s practically morning, I’ll cook you breakfast at my house.  I have eggs and salsa and beer and coffee.” 

I couldn’t think of anything better to do.  At this point the sky was beginning to lighten, just a little in the east, I felt lonely and a hangover began to hang over me like a heavy, drooling shadow.  Some coffee would warm me, make my nerve endings tingle, make the morning feel crisp, less desperate.  

I was discomforted by his nonchalance, his directness.  I felt nervous and ironic.  He made no attempts to touch me.  The air between us felt chilly like a business arrangement. In the parking lot of the apartment complex I stepped on a chip of broken bottle and cut my foot.  He did not stop to look at the wound or help or console.  I hurried behind him, dotting the carpet with blood.   I was freezing and realized that I was trapped there for the night, already having broken several of my rules.

Red Hat pulled me close after he had cracked several eggs into a hot pan and started a pot of coffee.  I was practically leaning on him to be able to stand up at that point.  And it was nice to be kissing someone.  If a person’s a good kisser, it almost doesn’t matter who they are.  You can enjoy the kiss, the taunt and intensity of it, the pressure, the warmth. It is tender and nice to be with anyone in that way.  In fact, you often kiss strangers more, to avoid the ordeal and awkwardness of talking. I found it best to prevent Red Hat from talking.  The hot breakfast gave me strength to deter his further advances.  I was consistent and ruthless in my refusal so it was in exhausted surrender that he proposed, “Come on, let’s lay down for a while.  Then we’ll see if we can figure out your car.” 

We curled together and warmed each other in a tired truce. It felt good, it felt like a moment of closure, sleeping with someone else, laying with someone other than Matt, the warmth and closeness of a vulnerable sleeping body, no more no less than the most intimate moment.  There was something tender and disgusting about falling asleep with a stranger, falling asleep because you really have no where else to go and no way of getting there.  Someone else’s arms a temporary shelter, a compromise, a surrender.

The sun began its assault on the scorched and unforgiving desert.  It is always a strange moment, awakening in a room you don’t know.  I thought about the day, the season.  Months were all off kilter in Arizona.  Exactly one month ago I had been with Matt in our comfortable marital bed, before the tsunami style weekend that blew apart the geography of our coastline, the arrangement or our quiet couple-dom.  He was sick and had smeared Vick Vapor Rub on his chest.  We talked about mutual friend who was having another psychotic breakdown and what to put on the grocery list.   We didn’t kiss, but smiled affectionately and slept.  Now, in the white light of this hot September morning, I couldn’t tell if I felt better or worse, in the arms of a stranger I didn’t particularly like, trapped in a city I didn’t know, a five hundred dollars and a broken down car to my name.  

I eventually roused Red Hat, insisting and prodding.  I even lapsed into whining.  He was going to sleep all day, as far as he was concerned. He was done with me. Driving me to my car was like an extravagant, overgenerous favor.  We emerged into the mid-day heat, I was disoriented and blinded, stumbling in the wrong direction, towards the closest car.  Any car! Shade! Anything!  There are few things worse than sleeping in your own beer soaked clothes after making out awkwardly with a stranger.  But still more brutal is waking in those clothes and having to conduct your day in blaring broad daylight with a splitting headache.  Red Hat and I immediately began to argue.  At some point in the night it had seemed a logical defense strategy to talk about my broken heart. Red Hat, unsurprisingly did not think full blown existential crisis and simmering hatred for your ex were legitimate reasons to avoid sex. I had persevered, but Red Hat was not done talking about Matt and his infidelity.

“I get that you’re mad.  Cheating, that’s pretty low.  That’s a sin in fact, that’s a commandment. But you know what else I learned in the Bible?” he leaned towards the passenger seat to make sure I was paying attention. I grudgingly looked over at him, “Forgiveness,” he concluded. 

“Yeah, you must need a lot of it,” I smirked.

Gesturing towards the Bible on his dashboard, Red Hat spat back,  “Mathew 6, 14:  For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father also will forgive you; but if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”

“Spoken like a true trespasser!” I began to shout just a little. “You know the point is, I didn’t trespass!  I diligently did not trespass!  I idiotically trusted that we were sharing some sort of mutual reality where there were no other people to sleep with.  There was no desire… to…” I trailed off, stopped mid-sentence with my hands hanging in empty emphasis.  It didn’t make any sense anyway, my head was pounding, it was pointless.  I leaned my head on the already hot window. The futility of this journey, stalled out 90 miles from the border, alone, desperate, arguing morals with Jesus freak, crack addict, plumber who didn’t give a shit who I was, what I was capable of, where I was going.

“You know what your problem is?” he started.

“I have no interest in your opinion about my problems.”

“You are damaged goods.  You’ve been traipsing around this country pretending you’ve escaped something, but you brought it all with you. You have this big old backpack full of meanness and you will not put it down!” 

I sighed and visibly rolled my eyes.  I had wanted a clean slate, and I couldn’t even make it through one night without accidentally revealing my chalk board full of scrawled incomplete equations, misspelled words, unfinished sentences, half erased answers. It felt sacrilegious, filthy to be discussing Matt, my heart, with this idiot.  But it seemed like that was all there was to me.  If I opened my mouth all that came out was anger and black bile that otherwise seethed in my stomach.  I had become a shell for rage, revenge, self destruction and sorrow.   I had Red Hat drop me off a few blocks from Karen’s house and stumbled in, wearing sunglasses and limping slightly, just as she was pouring a cup of coffee.

“Oh no! Where have you been?!” she laughed, handing me a cup.  “You look like you’ve been through a battle with several cases of beer and maybe a headboard.”

“I need to talk to Zulu,” I sighed.

I met Zulu in the parking lot a few hours later. I was slumped against the side of my inert car, mulling over my situation.  I felt precarious, like any moment the balance could tip ever so slightly and I would find myself waiting tables in this strip mall or kidnapped and tortured or running into the man of my dreams.  Anything was just as likely as anything else, and I expected the unexpected.  My mind bounced between unpleasant thoughts, as though each were too painful to look at, but too powerful to avoid.  It went something like this: My Car! Oh God, I am trapped in Tucson, Arizona. Please send me a sign!  Stupid Matt! How dare he!  Oh.  I am so ashamed of myself. Ew Red Hat boy! Ugh. Oh my head. My Car! What will I do? I can’t believe I’m stuck here! Oh, God please let Zulu not be crooked.  Please let it not be expensive.  I can’t turn back now.  I can’t go back. Oh Matt. Oh.

Zulu roared up in an oversized tow truck with someone else’s name emblazoned on the side. He seemed to take up the better part of the shadowy cab. He lowered his bulk down to the hot pavement and lumbered towards me.  

“What seems to be the problem?” he didn’t smile and went straight for my hood.  I popped it open.  He towered over me and my car.  He leaned in over the engine and I worried pieces of the radiator would snap off under his weight.

“The clutch, it won’t shift into gear. It’s stuck in neutral,” I stammered. “Coming down the hill, between 3^rd and 4rth, it just seized up.  The car had been overheating earlier.”  I gave him what I believed to be the pertinent information in the case.  I’d leave it to the doctor to diagnose the problem. I was well beyond my knowledge of cars.

Zulu was indeed very black.  I wouldn’t have guessed Ethiopian though.  He was heavy set but not fat. His tow company uniform was well worn and stained. He was not old but had deep creases in his forehead and hands.  His hands were a slightly different shade, smeared with engine grease, fingernails dirty.

“Get in and pump the clutch.”  Zulu plunged his arm deep into my car as though he was birthing a reluctant carburetor.  I pumped the clutch and I could see Zulu’s elbow twisting in my car through the crack beneath the lifted hood.  Zulu switched places with me and the car sank under his bulk.  He pushed the gear shift and slammed the clutch pedal.  He made a few more adjustments with his bare hand.  And the car was fixed.

“Yeah, your cable slipped.” He stood up and wiped his hands on the bottom of his shirt.  “That happens sometimes. I just tightened it up.  You could do it too. If it ever happens again,” he pointed out an oily piece and turned it slightly in his big black hand. 

There is nothing I love more than mechanics that show me how to fix my own car.  There is no greater gift. It is like bestowing me with a powerful knowledge that will save me from future peril. It was so easy.  Requiring no tools, no costly towing.  It was miraculous in a way, like he had uttered sacred words and waved a magical talisman. 

When you’re traveling every stranger becomes a witness to your life, actors in some inescapable and interminable play.  How will it end? What is the climax? Will it at least have a moral? When you’re cut off from normal social ties, innocent bystanders, often unwillingly, are called upon to fill in the speaking roles on your empty stage.  I suddenly felt like Zulu was some sort of wise messenger, sent to restore my car and my spirit, reroute my course, tell me the secret to unlocking my pain.

“You’ve saved the day Mr. Zulu.  I can’t believe it.  I thought I would be trapped here.”  I was feeling a little emotional. The sun beat down and I was unsteady on my feet. Caught up in the mystical quality of my rescue, everything seemed bestowed with higher meaning.  I dared to address Zulu about more than my car problem. “Look, it really means a lot to me that you fixed my car just like that, I mean you could have scammed me and charged me all sorts of money.  And I want you to know that I’ve been having kind of a rough time and you seem to be a person that has some things figured out.  Um, so I was just wondering,” I paused for breath and Zulu let the car hood slam down between us. What was the question?  What was the real question?  If you stumble upon some sort of messenger of destiny, what do you really want to ask them? “How do I forgive someone, who, hurt me?”

Zulu’s annoyance quickly turned inward.  He shifted his muscles and suddenly his terrifying bulk seemed calm and contemplative. “Well, let me put it this way.  My father was a snake charmer, an old medicine man.  He used to travel to all the cotton plantations around here and sell remedies and give shows.  Well, I helped sometimes to take care of his rattlesnake, tame old bugger, that he would impress the crowds with.  One time I left the cage a bit open and that snake got out in the trailer.  My father came in and that snake that he had cared for for 5 years sunk its teeth into his leg and by the time anyone came along he was dead.  I never did find that snake but I vowed to kill every rattlesnake I saw from then on.” Zulu turned from me and started walking towards his truck. 

“Wow, so how many snakes have you killed?”

“I haven’t seen a single one since.” He started pulling himself up into the tow truck. “You don’t owe me anything for the car. I hope it keeps driving for you.  I’m sure you have a couple other problems, other than that clutch.  But you’re probably good for now.”

Zulu closed the cab door and pulled out of the parking lot.

Probably good for now.   I chuckled.  That’s really all a person could ask for.  I sat in the driver’s seat for a while, savoring my restored freedom.  Where did I want to go today? I contemplated the intersection in front of me. It would be nice to say goodbye to Karen.  And then, keep driving. I shifted into first and moved forward.

camping

It’s still hitting mid-70s during the day in AZ. come on down!

Dog and I enjoy camping and taking pictures of dead trees…  and my pretty room.  and lizards in my room.

It rarely rains in the desert, obviously. Today is the first cloudy day for the last month. Desert rain is miraculous and special, like a meteor shower or rainbow, something to stop and observe, contemplate, appreciate. When it rains you can literally hear the ground and plants drinking. I’m not sure if this is botanically/biologically accurate or just my imagination, but it seems plants open up their leaves, branches and roots to be able to rapidly take in scarce water. There’s one bush in particular, creosote, that releases this glorious smell in the rain. So it is a time when I feel I can see plants moving, drinking, rejoicing.

It’s also just nice to see your surroundings in a fundamentally different way. The clouds change the quality light, and the moisture makes rocks, plants, sand appear to have different colors and characteristics. Normally I can see the desert stretching away from me in all directions, the endless openness and chains of mountains beyond. In Arizona there is nothing obstructing the view of continuous rolling desert, dramatic cliffs and mountains. Today the mountain I’m sitting on and the distant mountains are obscured, darkened, made dramatic by banks of storm clouds. I can see places miles away where the clouds have begun to empty their humidity onto the eager and thirsty landscape.

Unending and beautiful sunshine it seems, is made all the more glorious by occasional interruptions of dark, wet, cold, rain. I hike in the rain every chance I get (my Pacific Northwest friends and family would scoff), but I enjoy the change and the contrast. Too much of a good thing isn’t so good after all.

Likewise my ongoing unemployment is starting to get old. I am a creative and self reliant (self entertaining) person and I was honestly excited about a window of free time with which to take on some long neglected projects. I have been doing some very cool things with my time (wait till you see the desert found object mobiles I’ve been making), but there’s something about waking up every morning to a solitary, empty day that starts to wear on me beyond all my attempts at creativity and self discipline.

Seems endless free time is as hard to appreciate as endless sunshine. Though I will surely look back on this time with longing (once the pendulum has swung to the other extreme to overwhelming, all consuming work schedule), right now I desperately want a job.

Too bad there are no jobs to be had. And here I shift from quiet contemplations of moderation and rain to all out panic about my financial stability.

It’s funny, looking for work during economic crisis makes me feel like part of history, somehow, (like I get to be one of the characters in Grapes of Wrath), like the news is talking about me, like I’m in good company (with however many hundreds of thousands of people who have recently been laid off). It is scary. I begin to feel sort of apocalyptic about unfolding events. The truth is, I’m not sure how affected my job prospects are by all of this- sure there’s significantly more competition for positions, budget cuts have hit many of the typical organizations to which I would apply, and 4 positions I’ve applied for, for example, are caught up in state government and University hiring freezes- but it’s not as though I am in the industries that are the most devastated by this. I remind myself often just how much worse it could be- at least I don’t have a family! A mortgage! My expenses are so low that I’ve managed to not earn money for 4 months and I may make it through another 2.

It is scary. I am dwelling in rural Arizona that was (WAS) supported by mining, construction and ranching. In the 3 weeks I’ve been here I seen an explosion of people advertising themselves as handy men for hire, trying to bring in a little money (this was also my bright idea, to post for childcare and housecleaning, but now there’s too much competition even in that), there is now often a line to use the computers in the one room library to search for (nonexistent) jobs, and the fire department has started hosting dinners for families in need. It’s like being perched at the edge of the quicksand watching everything around you get sucked under.

Yesterday, at the crossroads between a highway in the middle of nowhere and a dirt road out to some shacks and trailers in the desert, I passed a man sitting on a beat up scooter with a cardboard sign that said For Sale. This is a place where a car passes, maybe every half an hour if that. I stared, made eye contact with the man as I sped passed, and his eyes had this look of desperation, hopelessness and smoldering rage that gave me chills. No one would sit on the side of a desolate highway trying to sell a scooter in the sun all day unless there was absolutely no other hope.

His anger I recognized immediately. It is my own. I was driving 2 hours back from a lackadaisical job interview for a part time position that wouldn’t come close to covering the incurred expenses of commuting or moving. In lucid moments I have huge hope and faith that something will turn up and I’ll stay afloat. But I see my thinning savings, hear the daily dismal new reports, recognize that there is no safety net at all whatsoever and I sink into the same frustrated, angry desperation as the man at that crossroads.

For example, I think I just had a filling fall out, or I have a new cavity. There is a place one of my back molars that is suddenly sore, strange and hyper sensitive. I can’t see or effectively feel that spot but in my imagination it is a gaping hole that is filling with tooth rotting gunk every time I eat. This slightly uncomfortable sensation snowballs into all out anxious meltdown when I think about how I CAN’T go to the dentist for at minimum 2-3 more months (assuming I get hired somewhere in the next couple weeks and they have a dental plan, it takes at least that long to get coverage and make an appointment). I am susceptible to freak outs about my health and teeth. My anxiety dreams are always about my teeth falling out, so when my teeth actually threaten to fall out (or something minor goes wrong that I can’t take care of) it is debilitating.

Debilitating? I take a moment for a It Could Be Worse Reality Check. I have many friends and acquaintances whose teeth are rotting out of their faces thanks to poverty and unaffordable dental care. I have been lucky, privileged to have been able to deal with cavities thus far. And I’m likely overreacting just because I feel vulnerable and powerless to take care of the problem. I’m on to the regimen of excessive brushing, fluoride mouthwash and constantly crossed fingers.

Everyday hundreds of thousands of people launch themselves towards undetermined destinations. If they glowed somehow and the trajectories of these adventurous souls could be tracked on a giant light-up map of the world like the Pentagon always has in the movies, the continents and oceans would sparkle like a summer night full of fireflies.

This was one of Linda’s meandering thoughts as she drove cross country towards her own new beginning. “Some people settle down, have kids, communities, gym memberships, but others, why they laugh in the face of normalcy,” she said this aloud now, shaking her fist a bit, concealed as she was, in her car, alone, on a desolate stretch of Interstate 40. “We free spirits, we have to experience the world, feel its extremes, know its facets and complexities.”

She said these things defiantly, defensively as her own dramatic decision to travel across two states to start a job in a place where she knew no one, was actually a Plan B, an Escape Route, a bold new path, when her settling down options had fallen apart. Linda was determined not to dwell on the wreckage, however. She refused to waste more energy and time on something that had already robbed her of years of her life. Her Life! She pounded her fist on the steering wheel, radio blasting, making her feel like freedom was tangible, graspable, and she was just starting to touch it edges through this, her first real independent decision.

The sunset expanded extravagantly as the entire western horizon could be seen, unobstructed by buildings or mountains or trees. There was one hue, that deep orange-red that gathered and spread around the sinking sun like a foam that she particularly liked. When she was a child in the 80s they made puffy paint that sunset color of nearly neon orange. It reminded her of sherbet, which she also frequently enjoyed as a child, because the color had a creamy, edible quality to it. Orange sherbet, but a little deeper; orange sherbet with raspberries mashed into it.

Between the road and the sunset and the speedometer, she also kept an eye on the temperature gauge. The car had been overheating for no particular reason, other than it was aged and poorly maintained and probably leaked coolant by the gallon. These were minor details though compared to the magnitude of the journey she was on. All her worldly possessions were piled into the tiny car. Or rather, the possessions that would fit, everything else had been sold or tossed. She hadn’t bothered with a garage sale, the departure was hasty. She left the debris of her old life in piles on the curb, counting on human vultures to do the cleanup. Escaping as though from a house fire, with what she could carry, she felt the buoyancy and exhilaration of traveling light and alone, cutting ties, escaping, refusing to turn to watch the flames.

Limbs of furniture dangled out the trunk, secured with a web of haphazard knots. The shifting, heavy objects reared and crashed about whenever she stopped or turned or especially when she went over speed bumps or potholes. The edge of her bookshelf, in particular, whacked against the latch of the trunk on several occasions with destructive force and by the time she arrived at her new little house, unloaded her things and stumbled, exhausted into her new life, her trunk no longer properly locked.

On her first night in her new town, the speakers that were bolted into the trunk were skillfully unbolted and lifted out. The robber, of course, caused no damage at all to the car and merely had the foresight to test the seemingly closed trunk to discover the faulty lock and valuable innards.

At first light, Linda was awake, observing the way the rising sun lit the walls in her bedroom. She savored the feeling of discovery; everything unknown! What will it be like? She found the coffee pot in one of the boxes and she took in the space, beginning to mentally plan how the furniture would fit, what she would need to buy at the 2^nd hand store. It was mid-morning before she went outside, heading off on an errand, and she at last saw the car trunk flapping open like a mouth. Her stomach sank and she unintentionally cried out loud, as if in pain. Oh, she said, oh no. She went to the car, touching lightly, as if touching a wounded animal. There was no damage, the trunk opened and closed easily, unable to latch. The bolts that had held the speakers in place were laid gently on the carpet of the trunk, the chord that had connected the speakers, curled like a sleeping snake. That was all. It was a very peaceful crime scene.

Linda felt like she had been punched in the stomach. She closed the trunk and laid a heavy rock on top of it. She stumbled back towards the house and slumped on a chair in her kitchen. She tried to breathe and more calmly sort through the thoughts and emotions, none of them pretty, that were flooding her brain and body. What the?… who?… why?… Oh, oh no… She felt a mix of outrage and betrayal but also shame. For really the robbery was caused by her inability to fix a trunk latch and ignorance as to the urgency of the repair. While confusion and paranoia grew within her, also did the unglamorous and unspeakable recognition that it was her fault.

The robbery also triggered unwelcome misgivings about her new home. In what sort of place to people walk around at night testing trunks to see if the latch is broken? She couldn’t tell anyone for that would mean facing a resounding I Told You So, from neigh-saying family and friends who disapproved of the move. Oh but it was all so tragic, so poignant; to be taken advantage of, stolen from within the first 24 hours of moving in. What a fool, she thought. All her cheerful arranging of furniture, list making for trips to the hardware store, the hope and excitement of moving into her first house, all by herself. The robbery was shocking, a cruel trick, like tempting a child with a ball before throwing it far away with vicious laughter, a traditional older sibling torture technique.

Linda also felt the dirtiness that accompanies being a victim of crime. The thief had to try to open the trunk to know that it was open-able. What else had he touched with light fingers in the night, testing the strength of the lock, testing for weakness, points of ingress? What would be next? What did he know? How sophisticated and sinister were his techniques? Any time ones faith in the human race is shaken, the tremors quickly go deep to the foundation. This one violation immediately triggered all the fears and doubts Linda held at bay by believing in the goodness of people. There is a person capable of roaming the night, searching for open windows, doors, trunks, leaving the scene, returning with a screwdriver, stealthily freeing the speakers, and escaping with those bulky electronics in his arms, undetected. It was premeditated, practiced, purposeful. What else was he capable of? Sneaking in a window and attacking her? Ransacking her new, precarious home for valuables?

She shuddered and stewed, cringed, but did not call the police. Her feelings about the robbery were strong and ugly, but her dislike for law enforcement was stronger. She imagined the uniformed, menacing figure, like a storm trooper, interrogating her, gun and night stick toppling her moving boxes, writing up her report skeptically, suspiciously. She played out the scene in her mind and disregarded that option. Besides, it was her fault. And her stereo still worked for the most part. And any person who had to steal, surely was in more need than her, hopefully they bought food instead of drugs. Probably they bought drugs, hopefully they had fun at least. She tried to be understanding. No harm done, right? No harm done.

Soured by this formative experience in her new town, she nonetheless endeavored to look on the bright side. The house was shaping up, all her trinkets in cute places, pictures on the fridge. The commute to work was reasonable and she could see the Milky Way from her front porch. It was a lovely town really, besides the poverty, nice view, quaint shops, peace and quiet. It was a mining town, however, its rise and eventual demise was bound to the price of copper and its abundance or scarcity in rocky hills worldwide. After the mine closed the persistent residents dug in their fingernails and refused to perish. The majority of the buildings were boarded up and slowly deteriorating beneath the relentless desert sun, because even persistence cannot trump the destructive quicksand of total economic collapse. It was a close knit community, predominantly Mexican descent, and proud. Many worked on schemes for revival, luring big city investment, tourism. The rest started using meth, the brain frying elixir of the rural poor. Linda saw these things, but chose not to see them. She had burned bridges in her departure and now optimism and determination were the only options.

Noticing now with distrustful eyes the details of her new neighborhood she felt sad, nervous, cheated, apprehensive. The place directly across the street from her was a double wide trailer, roof partially caving in, paint peeled or peeling off the fence and house, every single window pane was broken. As time went on, she marveled that in rain, wind, cold or extreme heat the sorry inhabitants made no effort to protect themselves from the elements. The yard was overgrown with weeds and unrecognizable pieces of machines and furniture. In her former life she had not known such squalor. She had not known the ugliness that poverty and drug abuse cultivated. Linda had never really strayed to the Other Side of the Tracks. But here she was now, bewildered and uneasy. There was something about always looking at that house, just there across the street every time she came or left, a constant reminder of menace and desperation. But she had staked it all on this big break, this new start, and in her more lucid moments she knew she could make it work, she had to make it work.

It is routines that eventually bring calm to the tempestuous oblivion of transition. At first it was all Linda could do to manage semi-regular meals, sleeping a reasonable number of hours, locating her hairbrush. Soon enough, however, she attended to her daily needs with meticulous efficiency, allowing her mind time for higher pursuits. Linda administered her regimen of mundane tasks in an attempt to create order and familiarity in the face of the overarching unknown she now inhabited. With the vehemence and commitment of sheltering a tiny camp fire on the edge of a windy cliff, every night she prepared the coffee pot, washed the dishes, set the alarm, laid out her outfit for work, made a list of things not to forget, said her prayers and every morning showered, dressed, packed her lunch, and locked up the doors and windows. With these Basic Survival bases covered, she started to feel comfortable. The initial panic of the stolen speakers began to recede and she started enjoying walking about the town, exploring, waving at her neighbors. She planted a garden and baked bread. She went to the store, the bar, the church and tried to make friends.

Linda’s next door neighbors were a young couple with a baby girl. They seemed sweet enough and a few days after they met across the low fence that divided their plots, they borrowed Linda’s shovel and potting soil and spent the afternoon planting a few cactus and vegetable plants in their gravel yard. Linda quickly learned more than she ever wanted to about their relationship, as she was unwillingly forced to overhear their late night quarrels. They were a couple of fighters. Linda had, in the end, described the relationship she was fleeing as “emotionally abusive” to her friends, but she had never before been in close proximity to myriad the shades, nuances, volumes of domestic violence. Their houses so close, Linda couldn’t avoid their fights. She sometimes curled on her bed, covering her ears, the terrified child trying to avoid detection. Their arguments were endless and pointless, the circles of nonsensical jabs and accusations that comprise all truly passionate and noisy fights. Sometimes after he was thrown out in a final flurry of screams and door slamming, he would knock on Linda’s door. What ever for? To apologize for the noise? To invite himself in, moving his way steadily down the block? To ask for money? A cup of sugar? Beg for all of mankind for mercy from all of womankind? She never answered.

About two months after she moved in, she woke up one Sunday morning to discover someone had stolen the bag of potting soil that she had casually stored along side the house. She did a double take, and initially couldn’t believe it to be true. Who on earth steals potting soil? It was a 10 pound bag the cost her $5 at the hardware store. It was not so much theft as harassment. No one could need potting soil so badly they would set out to steal it. It was absurd, malicious. Once again she felt dirty and used, tricked. And how could she even tell anyone about this? Who would believe it? Who steals a bag of potting soil? She scrambled to imagine plausible scenarios that could explain the motivation of the robbery: meth-addict in a moment of late night remorse and clarity, decides to do something nice for the wife he normally beats up, sees the bag of potting soil while strolling next to my house to cut across to the alley, and thinks- I will plant some flowers for my wife! It didn’t really seem likely, but what else made sense? Linda was somehow soothed by thinking of the meth-addict’s flower garden. It was better to give the benefit of the doubt than to contemplate the abyss of mean and hateful unknowns, dangers in the world that she could not comprehend nor did she want to.

Her neighbor’s level of potting soil remained the same, no new gardening projects, but she didn’t bother to tell them about the theft anyway. It seemed so silly. Reporting her story to the folks back home would only make people think worse of her town and her decision to move there. The initial efforts and advances she had made at carving her place in the town were tarnished, those early friendships tinged with suspicion. She went out less and less. Partly she knew it would be the same old scene, drunks drinking, talking about the weather; partly she felt misunderstood, isolated, hopelessly different. People were kind, but opinionated and rowdy. Once she was cornered in a bathroom stall of the bar by a hefty woman who demanded she stop talking to her cousin (presumably the man who had sat next to Linda at the bar, her neighbor). Linda was shoved into the bathroom wall and to the uncomfortable recognition that everyone in town was indeed related. In every crowd she walked into, she was the only one who didn’t perceive the detailed the histories of everyone else. She was at a disadvantage, always not knowing where to walk or who to talk to. What was common knowledge to everyone else; bitter rivalries, vicious rumors, sordid histories that lurked between all the people she met, was hidden from her as if she inhabited another dimension. Every interaction was bound up with generations of history and bad blood that she was oblivious to. At first she felt like an exotic outsider, like she would walk into a space and people would be drawn to her, a breath of fresh air in a small stagnant town. The attractive novelty of foreignness gradually gave way to a feeling of perpetual isolation and misunderstanding.

Linda had never felt afraid before in her own home. She had never felt this insecure. She had never realized she was observed in the world as much as she was observing. She suddenly became aware that the entire town must have noticed when she moved in, certainly the few rotten apples in the barrel, would scope the scene, noting her movements, her weaknesses. Of course someone had snooped around her car trunk that night she moved in. She had stumbled unwittingly into someone’s territory. She stuck out like a sore thumb, white girl in a small Mexican town, city girl in the middle of nowhere. Her initial presumptuous attempts at “fitting in” surely enraged the traditionalists, the racists, the most disadvantaged.

The dark, nervous cousin of routine is compulsion. She found herself not just locking the windows but checking them multiple times. Her daily tasks began to include futile habits meant to calm her roiling fear for the sanctity of her home. During the day at work she would be overwhelmed with anxious jolts, reviewing her morning mentally, certain she had left something undone and she would find the house turned upside down upon her return. She checked and rechecked, she fixated on the security of her home, leaving the house abandoned for more than a couple days made her unbearably anxious. She left lights on and blinds drawn at all times. She developed the tics and obsessions of someone under siege. She began looking over her shoulder in her own home, starting awake at the tiniest night noise.

The coyotes, for example, was a noise she had to get used to, but after she identified it as a) coyote b) unthreatening, she began to like the sound. Coyotes were always said to howl, but really it sounded more like crying, yipping, even barking. Occasionally they’d let loose a gut wrenching, moon yearning howl, but that was rare. She imagined them in dens, packs, with lots of puppies who did the yipping, perhaps when the grownups arrived with some fresh kill. What else do coyotes have to talk about? But often the quiet desert night would be interrupted by the cacophonous barks and squeals. It was nice to have them close. Made the humans reign over the area seem a little more tenuous. She liked to picture them eating people’s pets.

Sometimes she would hear gunshots echo off the cliffs. Kids after coyotes, she would say, fearing for the coyotes but fearing more if it wasn’t coyotes being hunted. It seemed like in small towns people had nothing better to do other than look for trouble and harass people. Cars often slowed near her on the road when walking to shout incomprehensible things or just glower at her. It wasn’t exactly threatening, in fact, it was rather humorous if it hadn’t been for her pre-disposition to assuming the worst. Her walks grew less exploratory, after she stumbled onto one too many streets where ferocious dogs leapt through the partially boarded windows of decaying houses, or menacing people scowled out their screen doors at her. She stuck to a tight loop of broad well lit streets that passed the old school building and the grocery store. Nonetheless every car or person she encountered on the road would send a small spasm of panic through her stomach. Rationality was so elusive without the calming perspectives of others.

She could imagine how it would go down. She’d leave the house for 15 minutes to go to the store. Return to find the screens slashed, laptop lifted, possessions strewn about. It would only take that long, if they observed when she was leaving, to loot the place. Like a person contemplating suicide, she played over the scene in her mind again and again. At times she would succumb to her paranoid visions and batten down the hatches even when she was at home. Her thoughts tormented her whenever she left the place unattended especially for long periods.

She tired to think like a criminal. At night after cooking dinner she would go outside to see what the house looked like to someone walking by. She realized how visible the interiors of her house were from certain angles. She was in the habit of just leaving the screen doors closed in the evening because of the heat, but from many places on the street virtually the entirety of her living room was exposed. She didn’t want people to see her working on her laptop or at all really. She started not only closing the blinds but closing the doors and turning off the lights whenever they weren’t absolutely necessary. That way she could see out more than others could see in. She found herself reading by flashlight in the sweltering heat, she chuckled nervously at her absurd situation, a hostage in her own home! But could not allow herself the kind of openness she was used to.

Linda began to notice that she was pursing her lips at the times when ones face would normally be neutral and relaxed. It was a purse of disdain and disapproval. She caught herself scrunching her eyebrows too, as if perturbed. Her normal thoughts caused her to make these horrible faces. She worried about developing permanent facial tics and wrinkles due to her subconscious angst. She’d always thought, with regards to the inevitability of aging, that at least she would smile a lot so her wrinkles would be jolly and good natured.

Returning one morning after visiting a friend for the weekend she found her bedroom window wide open, the curtains blowing in the breeze. Panic struck her, an electric jolt, like the time she stumbled into an electric fence meant to keep deer out of a flower garden. When she reached the walk her neighbor shouted, “I see you left your window open.” Linda started and stared. The bedroom window, on the opposite side of the house, was impossible for her neighbor to see without climbing several fences or from a very particular place behind the Stop sign on the corner. “Oh, yeah,” she mumbled, unlocking her door. Trembling she took inventory: camera, laptop, credit cards. She went over and over the list, touching the objects, assuming the worst, dashing from room to room in horror. Nothing was gone. She forced deep breaths into her lungs and went to the window to inspect the scene. Like a detective she made mental notes, screen was no where to be found, not even tossed around the corner or in the dumpster, gone completely; the dust on the window ledge was smeared.

And then she saw, her stomach tightened and startled tears sprung to her eyes, the unmistakable gouges of a crowbar in the cheap aluminum window frame. She staggered back a bit and sat on the low wall that surrounded her house. It was too cruel, too absurd, too stereotypical, too disturbing; a crowbar? Who has a crowbar? Had they come in and found nothing to their liking? Had they pried open the window and then been scared away? Linda could not comprehend the violation; could not understand the motive or the means. She locked the window and tried to forget. Nothing had been stolen, no harm had been done, scars on the window could only be seen from the outside, she cried, told no one, and tried to forget.

Utterly alone with only the dizzying spiral of her paranoia to guide her, it became impossible to distinguish meaningless petty theft from an elaborate conspiracy to run her out of town. She grew afraid and reclusive, curled into herself like an ingrown toenail. Every detail or interaction became clues in unraveling the community wide plot to torture and alienate her. She took in scenes like evidence, trying to understand this place she had come to live.

On her drive to work she passed a corner where someone had begun renovating one of the abandoned buildings. It soon was apparent that the renovator was carrying out his personal life’s dream not just opening a restaurant. The structure remained its dumpy, mining town self in skeleton only, and soon became an architectural eyesore with swooping welded metal façade and two walls made entirely of glass. It was painted purple and had many curving lines and splendid details. It would be an understatement to say the town had never seen anything like it. The town had never imagined such a thing possible much less here on Main Street.

Linda watched the never ending construction with rapt curiosity as she drove to and from work every day. The detail and refinement was exquisite. It was utterly out of place. Not knowing the owner or his relationship to the town or if there was a buzz about its evolution, she failed to notice the swell of animosity building like a wave about to break on a rocky beach. The grand opening came and went and she never saw many cars at the place. Who could afford to go? If it were as fancy inside as outside she doubted even she would be accepted, much less alone.

About a month went by when one day coming home from work, she saw to her horror that someone had thrown a rock through one of the elegant glass walls. The entire thing had shattered into tiny geometrical shapes, a crystalline honey comb, but it didn’t break, like ice suspended but shattered in a frozen lake. Her heart jumped into her throat, the violence of it, the senseless destruction. The attack on the restaurant felt very personal too, like a warning shot to anyone who steps out of bounds. Like everything else she could no longer tell how much was in her imagination. But she felt deeply for the owner and his dream restaurant, though gaudy had transformed a ramshackle corner of Main Street into something creative and alive.

September 16^th is Mexican Independence Day and in the town there was a modest but heartfelt carnival in the parking lot of the Catholic Church. The school kids preformed for a crowd of their parents who stood in bunches eating corn on the cob and watching people walk around. There were homemade stands for games and food, and the line for the tacos and menudo was considerable. Linda heard the music from her house and though she had once loved this type of event for meeting and observing people she was paralyzed with fear. She grudgingly convinced herself to walk through, wrestling with her internal demons. What was to fear? sweet families playing darts, eating tamales and waving flags. She walked through the park, smiling weakly, but quickly rushing back the few blocks. She reached her house exhausted and disgusted with herself. It was still early but she was tired of thinking and laid down to go to sleep. As usual, despite the heat, she had narrowed the windows to slits, locked the doors and left on a couple lights.

From somewhere deep within her dreams she heard the crunch of gravel outside her window. Drifting back to consciousness she heard an unmistakable male voice say, “is she here?” and another answer “I can’t tell.” She sat bolt upright just as fingers moved to test the screen. Despite the darkness, they clearly saw each other. The form retreated, gravel crunching towards the street in front of her house. She pressed her face to the screen and caught in the glow of the streetlight the shape of three boys. Boys! She stared in disbelief. Her heart was pounding but she almost burst out laughing. They couldn’t be more than 13 years old. It was strange and upsetting that they were about to crawl into her bedroom window while she laid in bed, but she wasn’t afraid of them.

She crept into the living room and watched the boys regroup next to her neighbor’s car. She flicked on her porch light and saw their startled eyes glint red like raccoons. The boys scattered and for the next 15 minutes she heard them communicate, whistling like the sleepy nightingales she heard every night. She listened as one of boys crossed back through her yard and caught sight of him out her bathroom window. He was skinny and loped stealthily across the gravel making very little noise, backpack bouncing on his back.

Linda felt oddly pleased with herself, relieved, heart light, as though blessed at last with the answer to a riddle that had tormented her. Through the months the thief had become a monstrous, shapeless force that implicated everyone in town; an underlying evil rather than an individual. But the escapades of three boys! Night antics, like graffiti, harmless reaction to adolescence and poverty, boredom. For the first time in months her thoughts touched the firm ground of reality, a realization of the facts, the context, a burst of calm clarity; nothing was ever stolen, other than her speakers that may as well have been laying open in the middle of her front yard. Pranks, petty theft, perpetrated by nervous, desperate souls. Simple, calming realizations flowed over her: having no friends cannot be confused with everyone being out to get you. Loneliness should not allowed to mingle with Fear, two sad shadows at the bar. Nothing blows things out of proportion more than a lone brain left to its own internal reflections, like a House of Mirrors, distorting and multiplying your worst imaginings.

The next morning she locked the house as usual, double checking the window latches, and drove to work brainstorming mischievous tricks to play on the boys (cactus, bells, witty signs, fake security cameras, old school booby traps). She wasn’t angry, nor did she want them to be arrested. But she did want them to stop messing with her house. She smiled to herself and was not afraid. The other crimes hadn’t necessarily been perpetrated by the boys, but something about their skinny legs sticking out of their cutoffs, their backwards baseball caps and frightened stances, eyes glinting in the light, took the teeth out of the imaginary monster she had created.

Linda began to relax into her new home. She was still cautious, still kept to herself, still locked all the windows with thorough care, but she began to enjoy walking again, admiring the desert vistas, eating ice cream cones on Main Street. Linda had always believed that winds signaled change, or at the very least, leant a dramatic quality to the days, and slowly the changing seasons ushered in October and a series of especially blustery days. One windy evening Linda stood pruning her rose bush on her porch when a sudden gust slammed the door behind her. The door locked. The door would not budge under her pulling and yanking. Through the window, on the kitchen table she could see her set of keys. The windows, of course, were all locked.

Linda circled the house several times like a stray cat, the sun throwing its final golden light across the desert mountains. She touched the crowbar scars on her bedroom window. The house was secure, she needed a tool. She wandered off around the block, through locked screen doors she could see the neighbors sitting down for dinner, the air smelled of roasting chiles and shredded beef. In the overgrown yard adjacent to an abandoned house where the local boys had graffitied La Raza on the crumbling walls, she found a length of rusty pipe. She glanced around checking for witnesses, cops. Approaching her house she could see the cheerful glow of her kitchen light, her sweet but struggling garden. She stared in the kitchen window calculating distance, force needed, how to do the least damage. With a quick thrust with the end of the narrow pipe she broke the window, just in the bottom corner, opening a jagged 4 inch hole. The breaking glass made an astonishing noise that seemed to echo off all surfaces, reverberate through her body. She could not believe that nobody stuck their heads out their doors with suspicion and disapproval. She practiced her speech for if the police car rolled around the corner. Her justifications probably sounded similar to the excuses concocted by the thieves that had hauled away her speakers and potting soil in the night. What would you say if a policeman questioned you about carrying a 10 lb bag of potting soil through town at 3:00 in the morning? I want to make a flower garden for my wife.

Linda clawed off the screen and poked the pipe through the window. She had to stick part of her arm, just past her wrist, through the sharp hole to make the pipe reach the key ring on the table. The process required excruciating dexterity, but at last, she slid the keys up the pipe and slipped them out the hole. She let herself into her house and collapsed on the couch. She didn’t think anyone had seen her. She looked around her house as a criminal would, with a stranger’s eyes, calculating resale value. She saw her lopsided couch, shelves of books, houseplants. Had he entered her house that time, that time the bedroom window was pried open? Had he stood in this living room and tried to evaluate value? Observed, touched, left. Had he merely lifted himself to the sill then been scared off by the porch light of a neighbor? She didn’t really have anything to steal. Unless a thief was particularly literate, he would probably turn away from her house in disgust.

And then came the humbling and astonishing realization that she had just broken her own window. Broken in, literally, to her house. It was so easy. Of course, like any survival skill, it would need to be honed if desperate times left no other option. She felt a wave of comprehension and pity as she pictured that poor soul, petty thief, entering her house, finding nothing, wandering, despairing, searching, unsatisfied. Instead of the boys, now she pictured the thief as an older man with a rucksack, 5:00 shadow, a gaunt look of resignation of having tried everything life served and never gotten full. She would seem foolish to this man, this room, frivolous. What she considered valuable were merely nostalgic treasures, rocks, scraps of cloth, bits of memories. What would he feel standing here: disgust, contempt, grief, loneliness? She imagined the men she passed up when they were hitchhiking the 30 miles between towns in the middle of the desert. She imagined the men she didn’t give change to and that she stepped away from on bus stops and sidewalks. She imagined the people she had betrayed or cut off, despised, ignored, forgotten or judged. She wished the thief could have come over for dinner instead of lifting the speakers, quietly, in the middle of the night.

She went outside and fashioned a patch for the window made of cardboard and duct tape. She covered the whole thing with a decorative curtain. The wind whistled through the serrated hole in the glass. She realized that now her house blended in more with her neighbors across the street. The wind blew hard. She looked up into the crisp desert night, the sky was millions of specks of light, some of them moving on their slow but purposeful paths.