nowhere all the time.

I walk out the door and cross the yard. I try to let everything outside the bullshit of the house invade my mind at once. There’s the familiar scent of Mesquite, Creosote and Camel Lights. The sun recedes and leaves the sky a pale red. It’s warm but the swelter is finally gone. For a quick moment I think everything might be ok.
But before I can inhale the world to come, the screen door flies open and slams shut behind her. I think maybe Lucy meant what she said about a murder suicide. I almost laugh but I’m startled at the sight of her. She’s in the yard, throwing my shoes at me as I walk out the gate and down the street. One of them hits the top of the chain link and fails to clear. The other one rolls in front of me on the asphalt. Lucy’s screaming things at me about needing shoes and a shirt in this world sometimes and then something about respect. I have to keep walking until I can’t hear her anymore.

The road feels good under my calloused feet. I’m content to leave her forever without shoes or a shirt. I can manage. I have this urge to give her one last once-over, some look to remember me by. But I keep on going, hoping that it looks like I don’t give a fuck. I’m trying to lie to her with the language of walking away, ignoring her fit in the yard, trying desperately to find some way to tell her what’s what without the impossibility of words.
I walk through the wash in the evening, fucking up coyote tracks with every step. I try not to think about what Lucy’s doing back at the house besides smoking and cursing. I look ahead and think about the night about to fall but it’s still sweltering, hot enough to expire if I don’t think of where to go next.

There’s a short cut into town. It goes on a half mile before crossing the main road that leads to the state highway twelve miles out. That road eventually finds Las Vegas going North and Mexico going south. The “Twelve Mile” road that leads to this town is a dead end. And I’m standing at that dead end. The sweltering town of Chemehuevi, California. And the Colorado River runs beside the town unnoticed. I look at it for a long time and decide I need a drink. Water most likely, but I always settle for beer.

Sullenly I walk through the parking lot that sits beside the road. Across the weathered blacktop sits the gas station and liquor mart and video store and deli. The center of town. Farther down, against the river, an ancient motel is being renovated along with but sitting apart from the main attraction, a small and unimpressive casino. It had long been a place for the older and surlier townsfolk, both white and Indian, to gamble away whatever meagerness they still possessed. But three years back, a Paiute businessman from hundreds of miles away, bought the land around the casino. He then began a venture to attract tourists with the usual allure of gambling, drinking and air conditioning. But a slew of financial problems stalled the project. The intention had been to create and sell a more remote and less bustling alternative to Las Vegas but was now just the same shit hole with a few new slot machines and half built add-ons protruding from every side. And all of this surrounded by the iconic American Southwest. It didn’t happen as rapidly as planned but it was certainly happening. I never thought it looked like much of a postcard. I can see the slow, interrupted renovation to the sign facing the river. It will soon attractively spell C-A-S-I-N-O…CASINO…in neon lights that flash big and gloriously. But for now it’s just lying there half built against the outside wall of the Whisper Valley Casino and Card Room. Motel coming soon.

As I make my way toward the deli and liquor mart, an old Chevy pick up with a fresh coat of rust and a bed full of Indians erratically drives into the parking lot and skids into an open spot in front. The truck jumps the curb enough to startle some children hanging out in front. Bouncing around the back of the truck are five men, locals with long hair and furious dispositions. I recognize the driver, an old friend named Dez, but I don’t say anything, just keep walking. He looks as pissed off as anyone. One Indian jumps out of the back with a tire iron in his hand. He swiftly walks over to a newer and much larger truck parked out front and busts the tail lights out, the left one and then the right, all the while saying things angrily under his breath then more audibly screaming “MOTHERFUCKER” after each muttering. The Indian gives it everything he has. Red-orange shards litter the blacktop. Then the headlights. The other men in the truck get out and stand by. A woman sitting shotgun remains in the truck. Nobody else in the parking lot asks questions or takes any action.
Then this bleached-haired white kid, maybe seventeen, comes out of the store with another kid who looks about the same but wearing a backwards baseball hat. Both of them look terrified and rightfully surprised.
“What the fuck, bro?” the white kid says.
“I saw you up there motherfucker! I saw you!” The man has passion and rage pouring out of his eyes. His impressively long hair is tied back in one long braid. He points the tire iron at the white kids and threatens, “I told you to stay the fuck out! Keep your ass out, motherfucker!”
The white kids retaliate with counter threats but they are only half-assed attempts at intimidation. These kids are frightened and outnumbered by their evening adversaries. The five Indians all stand silently behind their spokesman, waiting for these kids to make a move. There’s all kinds of shit lying around the parking lot just asking to be used as a makeshift weapon.
I walk past all this uninterested, thinking on another scuffle, the one back at the house. The hateful exchange of words and the subsequent bullshit of the parking lot fades behind me in a loud and awful dissonance. Out of the sun and past the domestic dispute, I find momentary shelter on the other side of a glass door. The small deli has its own entrance to the right of the liquor mart. With all scuffles and bloodshed out of sight and mind, I walk in, to a woman waiting just for me.

Irene is reading a paperback that she drops, startled by my entrance. She throws off her thick black frames but then seems mildly relieved to see a familiar face, not another bullshit customer and not her boss. The place is otherwise empty.
“Hello Irene.”
She says nothing and doesn’t have to. She pops open a tall can and puts a slice of cheese pizza in the oven. I’m a regular customer.
Irene is a Chemehuevi about the same age as me, an old friend in a way. She always ignores me but knows my every move, speaks only when she has something important to say.
She puts her glasses back on and goes back to her book. I take the tall can and thank her.
“What are you reading today?” I ask.
“Looks like you got some sun today, half-breed,” she says, her eyes marvelously big and dark behind the thick windows staring at the page.
“Yeah you could say that,” as I take a good first swig from the tall can, “Sure, something like that.”
“Can I get you anything else?” she says, her eyes still fixed inside her book.
“I’ll stick with the usual, thank you.”
Then she catches me looking at her. I realize I’m just standing there awkwardly, exhausted and alone. So I take a seat at the small table by the window.
“What is it? Are you thinking about leaving again?” Irene looks at me a moment then goes back to her book.
“Yeah, I think so,” I tell her, “But seriously this time. I need to. I need something different, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.” Then she laughs. “White boy drifter.”
“Well, half white.” I say.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nevermind. I was talking to someone else.”
“You’re weirder than you think, Daniel.” And she goes over to the oven to fix my slice, hiding each smile and small bout of laughter. I do the same, although it’s easier for me considering how tired and out of place I feel today. She sets it down on the counter then makes sure she hasn’t lost her place, adjusts her glasses and continues to read.

I pay and thank her again and sit window side, trying not to bother her. Outside, a sheriff’s deputy and his Native counterpart, both of them notorious assholes, have the group of Indians seated on the curb. The one who had the tire iron is in handcuffs and pleading to deaf ears. The white kid is bloody and talking to another authority figure. A group of women stand around watching and a child is crying real loud.

I look out beyond all this. A fine line of dark has settled on the other side of the river, the growing darkness hiding the tall granite mountains beyond the blood red walls against the water. Stars begin to fade into the sky but the sun is still setting slowly in another direction. Soon it will be nighttime and although it will still be warm, I wonder if I’ll need something more besides the jeans I’m wearing and the seventeen dollars I have in my pocket. I have no idea what I need, not in the least, so I leave it alone.
The food isn’t that good but bad pizza is better than most things. And beer is almost always good. And I like Irene. She continues leaning on the counter reading. I want to say something but can’t think of a goddamn thing.

There’s this obscure painting on the wall. It’s no masterpiece but it has always mesmerized me. It isn’t quite Mount Rushmore, just the stars of the show. Washington. Lincoln. Roosevelt. Jefferson. All in proper attire. And each one hanging from the same lonely gallows. No crowd. No executioner. Just four dead figures hanging. I’ve never said anything to anyone about it nor asked any questions. But since I was leaving town forever, I decided to ask my friend.

“Hey, Irene. What’s up with this painting here?”
“That? Oh, some drifter painted that, like ten years ago. Lived up there on Bonair Road. He painted that for the guy who owns the place and it’s been up there since.” Irene takes her glasses off and stares at the painting more intently. “It’s kind of a memorial,” she says.
“To who? These assholes?” I ask.
“No. To the artist,” she says. “The guy blew his brains out after that. They found him a month or two after. Kind of sad, right?”
“I wish I could do something like that.” The painting now coming alive for me in all its wonder.
“What’s that? Blow your brains out?”
“No. Not exactly.” I say.
We both laugh. And I look at Irene one last time, perhaps for too long. She looks at me awhile and offers a slight wave from behind those wonderful eyes. Goodbye. She puts her glasses back on and continues. And I walk back out into the desert.

I take the path that goes past the casino and down to the river. Once alongside the river, you can hike around rocks and reeds for several miles south of town.
Drifting down the riverside, I’m able to avoid the possible clusters of people taking it easy on a warm night. Drunk teenagers, people fishing and so forth. But I can’t avoid what’s constantly invading my thoughts.
About a hundred faceless questions circle around my mind like vultures unsatisfied. Any one thing I want to say or scream back in Lucy’s direction simply dead ends and dies. Still, her glare won’t go away. I start to feel bad, kicking the sand, calling myself an asshole, things like that. Then I stop because there’s no reason for it now. It’s kind of stupid pretending like things are so painless when I’m out here like this, without anybody around. I know what’s what. I’m leaving a decent house behind, a mobile estate to be accurate. And I’m leaving a decent woman behind. A radiant queen sometimes. But I’m thinking maybe that’s the problem. This is the wrong place for royalty and we’re the wrong fucking people. It comes down hard but it doesn’t matter now anyway. Then these thoughts recede a little and the river waits in front of me. We fucked up somewhere. Lucy and me, we’re just a mess. And that’s it.

The heat dissipates the moment my feet touch the cold water. I walk down between the reeds that gather at the banks, concealing a shallow pool I’m fortunate to find in the dark. Sand gnats fly up and off and back into the ground psychotically. Nocturnal things come out and about in all forms, in every way. I think about coyotes and tarantulas and rattlesnakes hiding, waiting for me to pass.

I look up and down the banks and then out across the river. Out into Arizona and more desert beyond. A few dim lights on the other side of the river that seem to be fading, about to burn out as they flicker so far away. And a billion other dim bulbs above me.
Behind me lies a changing place. The up and coming casino. The ruins of HUD homes and doublewides and many smaller dwellings. Shacks and shanties invisible to the passing eye because there rarely is a passing eye. The vacationers can’t see things like this. Every time I get some part time construction gig, it’s for one of these rich people’s houses. And with every add-on we build, it seems like part of the past is taken away. Living here year round, all the time, it’s hard to see beyond what’s right in front of you. Everyone’s distracted by survival. It’s never been a great town or anything. But it had it’s time. Now it’s just monotony and resilience and nowhere all the time.


I enter the river in my jeans. As it soaks my legs, the town around me and all others beyond falter and fade away. All grandiose disasters die swiftly as I wade out of the pool and into the flow of the river. I can float all the way to Mexico, into that fine blue Gulf. I can stay put and drown and it’d be just as well. I put my head underneath the black water and let the river take me slowly down past the casino where the neon flashing sign will soon be erected. Past the larger mobile homes at the edge of town, huge and empty places only inhabited from May to September. I drift on past the sound of their laughter and past the hum of dirt bikes and dune buggies in the distance. And past the early cries of coyotes scavenging for something to end their hunger.
It carries me about a mile before it grows cold and the dark consumes all remaining lights along the river. I’m alone and cold and submerged and ready for death. Let it go, brother.

Then at some point, I can feel a sandbar under my feet. And soon enough I’m standing with water at my waist. In one last pathetic maneuver, I sit down in the water to be finally carried away but it’s hopeless. No avail anywhere. I stand up again. I see the sad lights of the town over some large sand dunes. I wade back toward the shore where the sandbar emerged. There’s empty cans of Bud Light all over the place. An empty bag of Doritos floats past me. Nobody’s around. I shiver in my jeans but know I’ll soon be dry in the summer night again. I feel embarrassed there in front of no one but the desert. The quiet things are all laughing at me and I’ll just have to do the same. Fuck it.

There’s a trail at the far end of the dune. It goes steeply up some rocks and then straight toward a dirt road that leads into town. I find the trail. Drenched and stumbling, I make my way back. Reluctant in the desert dark.

Last Days of Joaquin Murrieta

"California's gonna die," she said. "And I'm pretty sad about it."

If you cut someone's arms off, one then the other, they will eventually bleed to death. Even if it takes a good long while, it happens. While it's ignorant to think otherwise, it's convenient as fuck. So people did that awhile. People moved into and around this place. Other people, a good slimy handful, made a killing. And made some money. Lives with breaths and blood and sacred places under a distant audience of fading stars were sold out and sold off like sickly cattle. An oblivious execution trip. Keys to the cages were thrown into the ocean. And the rich hid while the poor starved. It had happened before but not in this place, in this way. The real culprits got out clean. And they left the TV on and the engine running.
Their racket went on until the well ran dry and me and my kind are waiting around what was home, shells of cities in deserts and forests shaking heads and fists, saying, screaming, pointless questions. Why now and what for, etc.

California, she's not alone. In fact, it's not even that bad. It's just the enormity and symbolic importance of such a state of mind finally succoming to the strangulation is sad and it leaves my head spinning sometimes. I see the faces and hear the voices and it makes me want to take up arms, and without ideology or prejudice go down to the old factory where the scabs came in and blow them all away. 6112 Crosby Ave. Oakland, California. I can see you, you can see me. That's all technology has done.


But I'm just sitting down with you on a makeshift porch and we're discussing the weather, the strange and ruthless storm about to hit. Otherwise the sun usually shines. California like a motherfucker. Sometimes I can hide out and really lose it. And these times are becoming the only times I can revel in or hang with. A blanket on the grass. There's a baseball game somewhere. Dominoes in the park. A wanderer has reached the summit of a great and unnamed peak. Some longhairs have infiltrated a localized point break on the coast and will kill the rich fucks who think they know something about territory. A lowered Cutlass cruises for the last time, can't believe they could outlaw such a thing. Fresh tortillas all the time. A joint of native herb ignites. A soccer ball on the sand. Shitspeakers on a jambox. War, 2pac, Black Flag and The Beach Boys. The wind shuffles the past around softly. The sun smiles. California comes out and shines. The scent and the sight and the sound. I can dig it.
But it's too late to dig. Too goddamn late for anything.