Scrivenings of the King-Beyond-The-Wall

Western World #20

As I looked out on the endless desert that stretched out before me, I felt a pang of longing for the mountains I left behind when I moved out here. I grew up in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and came to love the crisp mountain air, the lush greenery all around, and the delicious chill of a day with fresh-fallen snow.

None of those things were to be found at my current whereabouts, some tiny town with an unpronounceable name so far into the New Mexico desert that I doubt it even comes up on Google Maps. Then again, that’s probably the whole point because nobody in their right mind would think to look for me here.

The word “town” is probably being overly generous. Other than a modest main street area, there’s not a whole lot to it. You can drive from one end to the other in a matter of minutes, and I can probably count the numbers of daily customers in any given retail establishment on one hand. There are exactly two restaurants in town, both seemingly locked in an eternal competition to see which one of them can win the title of greasiest spoon, or which can achieve the lowest possible grade from the Health Department.

There is one thing which is, as far as I can tell, the only thing that’s good about the desert and it’s that the sunsets are absolutely stunning. Seeing the hues of pink and orange and purple disappearing beneath a horizon of heat waves rising up off the beige sand is truly a sight to behold. It almost makes me forget the miserable other twenty-three hours a day where it’s either too hot during the daytime, or too cold at night. How anything can adapt and survive out here is a miracle.

I only hope that my time here is short-lived and that the U.S. Marshals Service finds a more hospitable environment for me soon. But federal witnesses can’t be choosers, I guess, and this was the best they could do for now.

Initially, I had argued against the idea of being stashed away in some small town. It seemed illogical, to hide me in a place where I’d stick out like a sore thumb. Shouldn’t they have sent me to a busy place like Seattle or Nashville or Boston? Somewhere I could disappear in the crowd and actually have some semblance of a life and not be stuck in a third-rate motel somewhere. But apparently major cities provided a major security concern with all of their cameras and tourists, and there are apparently places in this country that are so remote that it’s like they’ve been preserved in time for the past fifty years. Not only is this town in the middle of nowhere, but there are no traffic cameras, and even wifi and cell reception are spotty at best.

The Marshals tell me that this is only until the trial. Once the trial is over and everyone I’m testifying against is safely away in prison, it’ll be a little easier to find a more appropriate place for my permanent relocation and new identity. With the exception of brief excursions to the grocery store or the occasional meal out, it was advised that the best thing I can do is stay put in my dingy motel room, so that’s how I spend most of my time. I use a VPN to surf the web and look at potential places that I’d like to live one day. I looked at cities all over the country, places I’ve visited once or twice, and places I’d never been before. No location with any even remote connection to me. Would the Marshals service take my requests or recommendations into account? Who knows; but I have the time to dedicate to it and it couldn’t hurt. If I found somewhere that was completely disconnected from my old life, why wouldn’t they take that into consideration?

I thought about all of the places that I wanted to go. Several weeks into my stay in the desert, I had already ruled out anywhere in the Southwest, beautiful as the sunsets may be. I strongly considered the Pacific Northwest; it was the closest thing I could find to my old familiar mountain climate. Maybe somewhere near Seattle or Portland where I could still enjoy mountains and a cool Fall and chilly Winter season. But if similar climates were too much of a connection to my old life, I wondered how I would do somewhere in New England, or maybe the South. What about somewhere on the coast near Cape Cod? Or near the bayou of New Orleans or with the beautiful willow trees. I could see myself living in any of those places, although I wasn’t sure how I’d do with the summer humidity of the South.

As I was surfing the net looking at potential places to live, I suddenly heard a loud pop outside and the air conditioner in my room instantly went out. With the heat outside, I swore I could feel the temperature in the room rise a half a dozen degrees in a matter of minutes. I called the front desk and they said they’d send their maintenance guy over but it would be a couple of hours. It wasn’t uncommon for these old AC units in these old rooms to go out during a particularly sustained heat wave. As I started sweating in my room and noted that there were still several hours of blazing sunlight left in my little slice of the desert, I suddenly found myself wondering if I would even make it to trial or if I’d melt into a puddle before that could happen.

I’ll never understand why some people choose to live in the desert. Me, I’m looking to get out just as soon as I possibly can. If I stay here much longer, I might just spontaneously combust.

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(1,000 words)


Prompt: Set your story in a desert town.