A Taste of the West

A young boy wanted to see a bit of the west.

         Word Count - 1199









         

A Taste of the West

          The heat was a physical presence, a shimmering haze that danced above the asphalt. Eric, a young man of fifteen, squinted against the relentless New Mexico sun, his shadow, a small, dark blotch in front of him. He'd been walking for what felt like forever, the silence of the high desert broken only by the crunch of his worn sneakers on the gravel shoulder and the distant hum of a car that never seemed to get any closer.
          His grandma, a woman who believed in spontaneous adventures, had promised him the drive from Santa Fe to Taos would be full of breathtaking vistas and a real taste of the West. So far, the vistas had been vast stretches of scrub brush, and the taste of the West was a mouthful of dust every time a truck sped past. The adventure had taken a sudden turn when the old, sputtering station wagon had given a final shudder and died right in the middle of a long, lonely stretch of highway.
          "Don't you worry, sweetie," she had said, pulling out a brightly colored scarf to tie over her hair. "I'll just get us a tow. You stay here with the car."
          He knew there was no way to stop her, so he had watched her, a hopeful speck of color against the gray, brown landscape, as she'd walked back down the road, a small satchel slung over her shoulder. He watched her disappear in the predawn light. That had been hours ago. At first, he'd waited by the car, listening to the crickets chirping in the oppressive heat. He'd imagined her flagging down a wealthy stranger, or a friendly farmer in a pickup truck with a cooler full of cold water.
          As the sun climbed higher, so did his anxiety. The water bottle in the car was warm and tasted like plastic. The air conditioning was a ghost of a memory. The car felt like a metal coffin. He knew his grandma would be worried about him, stuck there all alone. He pictured her frantic, waving her arms at cars that didn't stop. He imagined her tired and hot, just like him. He had to do something. So, he started walking.
          He walked down the middle of the empty, two-lane road, the blacktop radiating heat up through the soles of his shoes. There was a sense of purpose in the center of the road, a defiance of the endless, empty space. He was going to find his grandma. He was going to rescue her.
          The landscape was a study in subtle gradients of brown and green. The mountains in the distance were hazy, their jagged peaks softened by the relentless light. He saw a roadrunner dart across the road, a blur of motion and feathers. A lizard, a bright flash of emerald, scurried. It was then he spied a large Elephant cactus that was casting quite a shadow. He left the road and curled up in that shadow. Eric quickly fell asleep in the shadow of the elephant cactus. About an hour later a large lizard crawled up on his face to sun and woke him. With a disgusted ahhh! and a bat of his hand he sat up. He was still in the desert, and it was still hot. He stood, walked back to the road and began walking down it.
          He walked with his head down, focused on the double yellow dividing line. It was a lifeline, a guide. He pretended it was a tightrope, and he was balancing high above the earth. He was so engrossed in his mind game that he didn't hear the sound of the approaching vehicle at first. He looked up.
          A car. A real car. Not a truck, not a station wagon, but a sleek, dark sedan. It pulled up alongside him, the engine a soft, purring counterpoint to the desert's silence. The window rolled down, and an old woman with a face as wrinkled as a dried apple peered out at him. Her hair was a shocking shade of white, pulled back in a tight bun.
          "Young man," she said, her voice raspy, "You're walking in the middle of the road. That's a dangerous thing to do,"
          Eric stopped, blinking at her. He felt a rush of embarrassment, "I'm looking for my grandma," he said, his voice small and shaky. "Our car broke down."
          The old woman's eyes softened. "I know," she said. "She's at my place and she is okay. We're getting you some help for your car."
          Eric's heart leaped. He followed her directions and got into the back seat of the car. It was cool and smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The old woman's name was Elena, and she was a potter who lived in a small adobe house just a few miles down the road. She'd seen his grandma, who had been a surprisingly effective hitchhiker, and had offered to take her to the nearest garage. When his grandma told her she had a grandson waiting by the broken-down car, Elena insisted on coming back to find him because he wasn't there when they picked up the car.
          Eric explained how he exited the road for the shadow of an elephant cactus where he slept for about an hour. That had to be when he missed the tow truck with his station wagon.
          They drove a short distance to a small, brightly colored garage where a man with a grease-stained face was already looking at the station wagon's engine. His grandma was sitting on a bench, a cold bottle of water in her hand, talking with another woman who, he discovered, owned the garage. She looked up and saw him, and her face broke into a smile of pure relief.
          He ran over to her, and she hugged him tight, burying her face in his chest. "Oh, my brave boy," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I should have never left you alone."
          He just shook his head, holding onto her. "I wasn't alone," he said, looking over her shoulder at Elena, who was smiling at him. "I was on my way to find you."
          The station wagon, it turned out, had a broken fuel pump. It would be a few hours before it was fixed. Elena and the garage owner's wife, a kind woman named Maria, insisted they wait at Elena's house. It was a cozy place, filled with vibrant pottery and the scent of adobe and drying clay. They drank cold lemonade on her shady porch and watched the hummingbirds' flit among the scarlet blossoms.
          As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of orange, pink, and purple, Eric sat on the porch swing, a new sense of adventure bubbling up inside him. This was the taste of the West his grandma had promised him. Not a desolate road, but the kindness of strangers, the cool shade of an old adobe house, and the promise of a starry New Mexico night. He'd walked in the middle of the road, and it had led him exactly where he needed to be.

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