“Should We Do This?”

Quincy and I were fried – way overcooked from a long day pedaling through the desert. We wheeled into a gas station connivence store for a dinner of donuts and chocolate milk. The owner told us that a few miles up the road was a place that had a few trailers. “He charges 10 bucks. Just look for the A-A-Frame building on the left.”

We pushed on. The wind blew. The sun was setting. We rolled over more miles of desert, knowing that a 10 buck trailer was a lot better than a night in a wind-rattled tent, surrounded by grit and snakes.

Six miles later we thought we found home. The A-Frame building was closed and locked. We knocked on the door, hoping someone would let us in. Behind the A-Frame was a meandering row of trailers, rocking in the dust. A freight train rattled across the dessert in the distance, blowing its horn. I wandered among the trailers, looking for signs of life, keeping an eye ahead of my shoes, scanning the dirt for rattlers.

A door popped open. A grey bearded man stood in the doorway and gave me a long look-over. He carefully held on to a railing and hobbled down a few trailer steps to shake hands. 

Fast forward a few minutes and a string of questions, in a mist of beer breath, Charles told me the owners were gone for the day. We chatted a bit longer. 

Charles had a handsome, chiseled face, trim, gray beard and a tight, rubber banded pony tail. He smiled and revealed several missing front teeth. My first thought was that they were lost in a barroom brawl or during a face-plant fall in the middle of a blackout. 

I could tell he was weighing options, considering a plan to help us out. “The only place for you to stay would be in my trailer. In fact, I’ll give you two my bed and I’ll sleep in my recliner.”

Quincy and I glanced at each other with a look of, “should we do this?”

We lifted our bikes up into the trailer and maneuvered them into a cramped kitchen space that separated the bedroom from his sitting room. On the counter was a pile of tobacco and a hand-rolled cigarette. 

“Look at this view I’ve got,” pointing through the side window. “I told my brother to come visit. I told him all about the animals I see out my window. It’s the best view in the world! I told him I’d even give him my bed. He never came.” 

Charles showed us the tiny bathroom. “Use the shower but be sure to put the plug back into the drain when you’re finished. It empties out onto the sand and the critters like to crawl in.” 

Then he showed us the bedroom. A double mattress took up most of the room. He reached down next to the bed to retrieve his 12 gauge shotgun and several shells. “I’ll take this with me.”

A lot of folks who live out here – some call them desert rats – want to be forgotten. They are getting old. Social Security gives them just enough to manage. They like to be alone. Charles was no exception. Three marriages, 2 adult daughters who don’t talk to him, and a mountain of bills offered little to look forward to. A few years ago he broke his right ankle. It didn’t heal correctly. Walking on it is painful. After the accident, finding work was difficult. Looking down, he offered, “Do you think my daughters stepped up to help? Nope. Nothing. Not a damn thing.” 

Finally his brother handed him a 4-grand wad of cash and said, “go start over.” Charles sifted through a lifetime of possessions and loaded the remnants into his small car. He left Indiana and headed west. 

Quincy and I were awake a 6 am, our sunburned legs still stiff and not quite ready to get back on our bikes and start pedaling. Charles was sitting in the recliner, wrapped in a blue bathrobe, smoking a cig and sipping coffee. He took a drag and looked up, smiling, revealing the gap of missing teeth. “I’d offer you some coffee, but I only have one cup.”

My son and I thanked him for his kind hospitality. We’d grown to like Charles. This was always the best part of cycling through America – being befriended by strangers. Charles asked if we couldn’t hang out for a while longer. It was clear by his tone that he didn’t want us to go.

We carefully backed our bikes out the door and down the steps onto the dessert floor. Charles stood in the doorway to watch us leave. Then he closed the door and returned to his recliner and his favorite pastime: looking out through the trailer window, into the dessert. He watched for animals and birds that might search the parched land for nourishment. He scanned the horizon for the occasional storm that may roll in. His metal box – his home – warmed by the sun, still rocking in the wind. A hawk in the distant blue sky circled. With his shotgun waiting on the floor, Charles took a sip from his only cup, wishing his daughters, or even his brother, would give him a call.

3 thoughts on ““Should We Do This?”

  1. the road calls and you have answered. A great story of stepping to the other side and coming back all the better for it. May each day bring you another challenge, another risk, another laugh.

  2. A great story that may have never been told had two spirits floating through the desert not stopped to seek refuge.

  3. Ok, first of all. You’re a good writer. You’re story is clever and well written. But it’s wrong. I’m one of those “adult daughters” that doesn’t talk to him. Funny, I have a photo from a month ago with him dancing with me at my wedding. Perhaps you should know that he has three failed marriages because he’s an alcoholic. And, despite, his lies and let downs, we still love and communicate with our “desert rat” father. As an author myself, it’s important to look at all sides of the story. Not just be a clever writer.

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