The Beaten Path

I used to believe life in the universe was essentially insignificant -- we were merely the splattered remains of that Big Bang God fired out into the darkness all those billions of years ago, and it would all be over in an instant. Now I’m not so sure.

I’ve been in jail for four years now. Grace is gone and tomorrow I have a special seat waiting for me, waiting to take me away. The unknown can be a scary thing.
Let me explain.

“Get out of the car!” The man shouted.

From the crinkled oil stains on his shirt and the dull animal glaze in his eyes, I knew he was one of the vicious drones that wander the desert. I had made a mistake by trying to steal his car. His thick body of muscles showed no sign of intelligence and the sun beat down on his shaved head, a money sign tangled with a scorpion tattooed above his right ear glistened with sweat. I let go of the wires that drooped from under the steering wheel and stepped out of the beaten four-door sedan. The low sand dunes on the side of the road gave way to the open wasteland of New Mexico beside me.

His bull face blazed red; he charged and tackled me against the car. I dropped and hit the pavement, a shot of pain kicked through my face, the blood sprinkled across the ground, and collected in little blobs with the dust. He kicked me in the stomach and knocked the wind out of me. I tried to catch my breath, heaving in the dry desert air. I tried to smile at him; my teeth covered in blood, “Calm down, chief, it’s just a car.” He swung and made contact with my jaw; I spun and hit the ground.

He spit on me, “You go near my car, and I will break your face.”

I wobbled to my feet, my hands raised, I half-smile “It’s a piece of crap, man. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

He lunched forward again with his fist, but I caught it and brought his head crashing to the hood of the car, the thud echoed and he collapsed onto the sand.

I hobbled into the sedan and finished hooking the wires together. He muttered as the car jumped to life and I stepped on the gas.

Minutes later, I pulled into a gas station that stood alone in the desert, and went into the bathroom to clean my bloody face. When I came out, I noticed a woman in the snack aisle staring at the chips. She wore worn-out jean shorts, boots caked with clay, and her hair fell like a black waterfall down her back. Ancient dirt had smoothed her desert skin and Native blood flowed through her veins. The tight white shirt she wore clung to her chest unbuttoned. She possessed a beauty one can only find in the depths of the desert – rough and stunning.

I walked past her with the bruise prickling my face; she stared at me as I walked by, her dark eyes sparkling. I picked up a pack of jalapeño-flavored chips as I walked by and winked.

I walked outside to fill the car with gas. She came out a minute later and stared into the tan horizon that wrapped around us on all sides. Leaning against the car, I looked at her, she had gotten the same chips. “Good choice,” I said.

She smiled.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Grace.” Her voice was light, almost melodic, but carried a weight of life I rarely heard.

“Grace,” I said. I liked the way it sounded. “Erik.” I stuck out my hand.
“Grace, this may sound odd coming from a man… But I need help with directions.”

She corners of her mouth rose and her entire face shared the smile.

“I need to get to Santa Barbara, think you could help me out?”

Her deep shadowy eyes glanced at the rusted car and the large cut on my face. I pointed to the swollen cut on my face. “I got in a fight with the car salesman,” I said, “He said I was asking too much for this baby. But I told him this beauty was worth it. We’ll you can imagine how upset he was.” I let a slow grin emerge.

The gas pump stopped and I put it back. “Okay, I guess I’ll figure it out on my own.” I stepped into the car

“Wait,” she said. “I might be able to help.” She took a map from a brown worn-out purse

I noticed a few more maps stuffed inside and grinned. “Are you a part-time cartographer?”

She laughed, “No. I travel -- live here and there. I’m always moving.”

“So, you’re a hobo?” I said. She smiled and hit me with the map. “So, what are you doing out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked

“Visiting family. My ancestors are originally from New Mexico.”

“Originally? Meaning, before the white man discovered it?”

“Funny. Yes. In fact, the white settlers nearly wiped out our tribe.”

“Okay, sorry, not that funny.”

She smiled, “They own a casino now, so they can’t complain.”

I smiled without meaning to. “So, Indian guide, tell me where to go.”
She pursed her lips and unfolded the map, careful to press out all the creases. I watched her explain the way to town, her clean fingernails trailed across the dashed highway lines. Her voice resonated with a hint of ancient songs and chants. When she finished I hardly remembered what she had said. I nodded my head as if I understood, but I knew she knew I knew nothing.

“I think I’ll manage,” I said.

She wrote her number on a piece of paper, “Here -- In case you need some more help.” She handed it to me, smiled, and walked off. I put the paper in my back pocket and waited until she was out of view, then got into the car and drove off.

A week later, I called her. The line rang several times and then an answering machine picked up. “Hey Grace. It’s Erik, the white man with the beautiful car. Well, good news and bad news, I’m getting rid of it, but you can come see me blow it up in the desert.”

The phone clicked and I heard her speak again with that heavy voice, filled with life, “White man. I guess you made it home alright.”

“I did,” I laughed. “So, are you coming to see the fireworks?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve decided that this car has caused me enough trouble, so I’m going to take it to the desert tomorrow and let it rest peacefully. After I blow it up, that is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Absolutely… not. Anyway, I’m heading out the door right now. So, tomorrow, exciting night out in the desert or more map studying?”

I knew from her voice she was smiling. “Okay.”

We met the next day as darkness crept over the desert sky on one end and the orange glow of the sun dominated the other. She wore rugged jeans, torn at the thigh and another tight shirt with an old brown jacket made from animal skins. I asked if she had killed the animals herself. She said she had. We drove for thirty minutes, winding down the unfinished highways as cacti whipped past the windows and canyons stood still and abandoned in the distance.

“So tell me about your traveling.”

She looked out the window and her voice dipped. “The world is so much more than this empty place,” she said. “There are cities so crowded you can’t see the sidewalk; towns hidden in valleys, surrounded by enormous mountains, the horizon ceases to exist I swam in a lake that engulfed an area large enough to swallow this town. I walked within castle walls to see gardens that flourish with more plant life than all of New Mexico.”

She used her hands when she spoke, forming details with her fingers. I watched them dance and create little worlds. I envisioned her descriptions as we drove into the desert. The blank landscape where I had grown up transformed into wild lands. I drifted in and out of reality. So deep was her voice, I became hypnotized. She breathed life into my imagination and made these worlds seem a step away. She told me about jungles so dense the ground never sees sunlight, and forests packed with trees that grow to the heavens, past the peaks of the flat mesas. I watched her expressions as she spoke and could see her a hundred years ago, chanting with red face paint and skimpy animal skin clothing, summoning the spirits of the world, telling stories of faraway lands.

She looked out the window into the setting sun; lingering reds and oranges dusted across the purple sky. “I don’t know how people live their whole lives in this bare land, stripped of everything.”

I gripped the steering wheel. A calm silence settled between us as the sun winked away over the level horizon.

After a minute she spoke. “So what are we really doing out here?”

I half-smiled and looked at her sideways. “I told you. We’re going to the middle of the desert to blow up the car.”

She laughed, “You’re serious? You’re crazy”

I grinned, “Well, you have a crush on a lunatic. That’s worse.”

“So you’re just going to blow it up? How? Why? How will we get back?”

“Yes.” I replied.

She shook her head and I saw a seed of excitement in her face.

A few minutes later, I turned off the road and sped straight into the desolate wilderness. The car bumped and swerved on the rocky floor as I built up speed. I felt a flurry of energy course through me. I wanted to tear apart the desert, rip into it. The car hummed louder and I leaned forward. Grace grabbed the side handle as we crept to eighty miles an hour. She eyed me with excitement when we reached one hundred mph and put her free hand on my leg. I wanted to drive clear across the desert, straight to the ocean. Every loose piece of plastic in the car sounded like a rattlesnake and her voice vibrated in the air. The high beams shined into the deserted land, long abandoned by Grace’s ancestors. I thought of how the desert whites out parts of the earth and erases all signs of life. I slammed on the brakes and swung the steering wheel hard to the right. The car spun in the dirt, dancing across the flat land like a wild jackrabbit. Grace’s head flew to my shoulder and her eyes glowed with exhilaration. The car skidded to a stop and we sat, veiled in a cloud of dust.

She looked at me, her black hair cut across her face in strips and she giggled. The giggles turned into laughter. She jumped out of the car and leapt onto the hood. Laughing at the moon, her black hair flowed against her graceful body, and she looked like a wolf calling its prey

She beamed at me, standing on the hood, stars outlining her silhouette. “You’re absolutely insane!”

I went to the trunk, pulled out the supplies, and dragged them away as Grace lay on the hood and looked at the sky.

I returned with a canister of gas. She jumped off the hood as I walked up and she brought her hair to one side. “So why are you really blowing up the car?” She asked.

I looked at the car, “I don’t like the color.”

She shook her head and laughed, “There’s something about you...”

I went about pouring the gasoline all over and inside the car. I then trailed a little river of gas back to a safe distance. When I finished, I looked at her sideways and gave a half-smile, “Do you want light it up?” I asked.

Her eyes widened and she reached out. “I was kidding!” I laughed.

She scrunched her nose, glared at me, and crossed her arms against her chest, trying to look angry while suppressing a smile.

“I was kidding about kidding, come here.” I put my hand out, her black eyes glowed white with the moon. I grabbed her hand and pulled her close. “This may be dangerous. Think you can handle it?” My voice floated gravely on a cold breeze and the desert silenced. She smelled like a cactus flower I couldn’t name. I raised her hand, kissed it, and pulled a match out of my pocket. I faced her toward the car and stood behind her, my chest pressed against her back. I placed my hand on top of hers, lit the match, and put it in her hand. She dropped it onto the little river.

The fire rushed forward like a flash flood and shot straight for the car. The car lit up in flames and suddenly burst. The explosion shook the ground and rang through the air. The orange blast danced with reds and yellows as the car jolted into the air, pieces splitting away. I heard the sound of metal splitting and small bits of paper burst into the air like confetti on fire. A wave of dust whipped past us and for a moment, a silence took over the desert once again, this time deeper, more complete. Then through the silence, the flames sung out.

Her hand was shaking and her hair stuck to my mouth. I put my hands on the sides of her head and slowly swept my fingers through her silky hair. She breathed in for the first time, deeply, and turned to face me. She stared at me; her flowery aroma teased my nose. I smiled and said, “That was pretty cool.”

Her eyes were wide, a grin hid behind her mouth. She glanced at my lips and wrapped her arms around my waist. I stared deep into those Native eyes and saw the reflected constellations in their original forms. I brought my head down and our lips brushed against each other. She breathed in quickly and pressed her hips against me. I leaned forward and her soft lips caressed mine. We held each other close. Warmth blazed between our bodies, and a cool wind, mixed with the ashes of the dying fires, blew across our backs. We slept in the desert that night, speaking more of the vast world around us and holding each other close.

I awoke the next day, huddled next to Grace; the early morning air snuck in through the cracks of the tent and chilled my toes. I dressed, unzipped the tent, and stepped out. A lingering smell of smoke floated in the air and the charred car lay as an unrecognizable carcass. I looked at the smoldering remains and noticed green bits of paper littered the ground, as if a life-giving oasis had spawned from the desolate soil. I walked closer – something about them seemed familiar. The wind caught the rectangular shaped green paper and it tumbled to my feet.

Grace emerged from the tent, dressed only in the animal skin jacket and underwear. Squinting in the early morning sun, she yawned, “What are you up to?”

I stared at her, the early glow of the sun made her look younger and more alive, like a mirage, a wavy dream that might disappear

“Cleaning,” I said. I picked up the green paper, browned around the edges, with a picture of a president in the middle, and waved it at her. She narrowed her eyes. A second later, she ran out of the tent, hopping on one foot, trying to put both her pants and shoes on at the same time.

We dashed about, picking up the hundred-dollar bills that scattered across the sandy ground. I found a charred metal case, blasted to pieces underneath the car. After an hour, we had a large pile of greenery before us, the only one for miles around. I sat and stared at the pile. Something swelled in my stomach; it jumped to my throat and I was laughing. Grace sat in shock, unable to comprehend what lay before us. I picked up a handful of cash and said, “Grace, how would you like to go around the world again, but this time with a sexy man and loads of cash?”

She looked at me; her face was more beautiful in that moment. She looked at the pile of money – I saw her thinking. She must’ve wanted to know where this money had come from, but the temptation took over. She smiled and laughed so loud, I think it surprised her. “Where and when?” She replied.

I laughed. That burning desire jumped back into my heart. I had been in the desert long enough. It had taken its toll. I could almost believe no one else was alive on the planet – everything was imaginary. The desert creates a mirage of the world around you as a vast, endless span of lifeless nothing, like a dirty representation of what it was like before anything existed. I realized then that I needed to escape. We both did, before it killed us.

“Let’s go now,” I said. “Anywhere.”

“Now? You mean, today?”

“This instant. We can catch a ride into town. I’ll grab another car. We can buy anything we need on the way.” I looked at her and her dark face took me in

Yet, she had an odd look in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. I felt a sudden divide shoot up between us. I was about to speak again when she sputtered, “Okay.”
I grabbed her waist and kissed her, “Okay,” I said.

We hiked back to the highway and caught a ride into town. The whole time I talked about where to go, what to see, and asked questions without waiting for answers. A new energy blazed within me. I wanted to lie down on earth covered an inch thick with leaves and plants, stand on a ship and see water in all directions, hike up a snowy mountain and pass out from the thin altitude. I wanted to drink water straight from a waterfall. I suddenly felt the desert wash away. Yet, the more excited I got, the quieter Grace became.

We got into town and she went into a store to buy a few things. I stole a car from an empty lot, picked Grace up, and we were off.

However, she hardly spoke. We were still on the two-lane highway out of town when she asked me to pull over. I knew whatever she was holding was about to come out. I pulled over and looked at her. She un-hooked her seatbelt and turned to face me, her mouth opened, but nothing came out. I waited. Finally she spoke. “I can’t go.”

Everything stopped moving.

“I can’t go,” she said again.

“Why?” I asked. “You don’t trust me? Listen, I don’t blame you. I know I’m not a great guy, but this is a once in a lifetime chance.”

“It’s not that.”

“Maybe you don’t understand what it’s like to live in the desert your whole life.” My voice was getting louder. “Listen, Grace. If you don’t want to go, then get the hell out of the car.” I stared at her, “I don’t understand. What happened to all your stories? Don’t you want to get out of here?”

She put her hands to her face. “Yes! I do! I want to leave and never come back! But I can’t!” She cried out.

I reached over and put my hands through her hair. When looked up, her eyes were glazed over and wet. “I’ve never been anywhere,” she choked.

My hand dropped from her head. “What?”

“I’ve never been anywhere,” she said again, breathing unevenly. “I’ve never left the desert. I’ve lived here my entire life.” Her voice weighed me down. “I want to leave so bad. I can’t stand it.” She looked into my eyes. “You make it even harder. I’ve never had the courage to go before we met.”

An odd sensation trickled over me. I tried to ignore it and looked away.

More tears trailed down her face, her voice was weak. “My parents don’t own a casino. I don’t have parents.” She spoke rapidly, “My uncle raised me. He loved the desert. He said we could not leave our land.”

I continued to look away and she continued talking, “On my eighteenth birthday,” she sniffed, “I packed up and went to the bus station. I sat and watched the busses enter and leave all day, but I couldn’t go through with it. I went back home and found out my uncle had had a heat stroke while he was looking for me in the desert. If I had only stayed home, he might’ve lived.” She choked on her words.

Her eyes stared to glow as the sun hit the tears and she wiped them away. “It’s always the same here,” she said. “The desert only changes when you change. When I was younger, the caves and valleys hid treasures and secrets of ancient rituals. Now all I see is a barren wasteland that’s dried me up.”

I realized what the desert had done to her. Its vastness had closed in on her, creating a cage of endless sand all around. We felt the same. The years of dust storms had worn away her life. I finally turned to her, her face was wet and glimmering. I tipped her chin up with my hand to make her look at me. “So let’s go,” I said. “Let’s go.”

She looked down; the teardrops created little circles on her pants. I glanced at the road, cars whizzed by and a familiar face flashed in a passing car.

The car slammed on the brakes and spun around. I looked in the rear view window, and the car rushed back at us, full-speed. I looked at Grace. Everything began to move in hours, she looked at me, unaware of the oncoming car. Those beautiful black eyes pulled me in and I saw the pain of her entire life disappear. She seemed to laugh. Her brown skin lit up as a passing car reflected the light of the sun, and opened her mouth to speak, a tiny smile was building. Then her head tilted back gracefully, she blinked, shutting out her inner thoughts for a moment. Her head bounced off the back seat, her eyes went wide again, and then her head glided towards the dashboard, pieces of glass floated around, glittering playfully. Then it went red. Then black.

I had slammed into the steering wheel and my ears rung. My neck felt like a swollen melon. I twisted my eyes to look at Grace. She lay limp on the dashboard, her eyes wide, and a smile still rested on her lips. I twisted my eyes the other way and looked in the side view mirror. The bull-faced man with the shaved head and tattoo was stepping out of the car, unshaven and tired. He rushed over to my side of the car and stared at Grace’s limp body. He looked at me and sputtered, “Get out of the car!”

He held a gun in his hand, his sweaty arms shaking. I put my hands up slowly and reached to open the door. He stepped back as I swung the door with all my strength. I caught his legs with the door and heard his knee crack. He fell to the floor; I jumped out of the car and stepped on his knee. He screamed and I punched him in the throat. He dropped the gun and held his neck and knee, moaning and gagging. I took the gun off the ground and looked back into the car. Grace’s death smile burned into my memory. I turned to the man and shot him twice in the chest; the bullets sent puffs of dirt floating into the air. He lay still. I sat back in the car next to Grace’s body and held her hand; it was cold even though the sun beat down all around us. I kissed her fingers and sat on the warm seats as sirens squealed across the flatland like the call of a vulture.

I sat in the car seat as the police arrived. The barren desert that stretched on either side of me silenced my voice. The police swarmed up and I went in without a fight. I pleaded guilty and received eight years in prison for murder. The lawyer made it look like temporary insanity, since the man I had shot just killed my “girlfriend” –but I wasn’t sure it was insanity. At the time, I felt sane. My mind was clear when those bullets pierced his chest. He took a life, so I took his. I thought that was fair enough. Maybe that is insanity. In prison, I learned that death puts life into perspective. I used to think life was meaningless. The bland desert painted no bright pictures for me until I met Grace. She opened a part of me that I had forgotten – the part that looks forward with optimism. I spent all my time in prison thinking about that. And slowly I began to feel sorry for the man I had killed.

Now I’m sitting here, waiting. It is almost time. They’re calling my number. Maybe I deserve this, maybe I don’t. I want to believe Grace will appear at any moment, but that’s not going to happen. They’re calling once again, “First class may now enter the plane for flight 763 from Santa Fe to London.” The eight-year sentence dropped to four for good behavior and I took the time to plan my trip around the world. I figure the world may not last forever, we may all die and that’s that, but I had better see it while I can, while the pyramids are still up and crumbling, constantly whipped by the desert wind.