Summer in Death Valley Part 1

"Blue River, population nothin'."

Jake was a man of few words and that about summed it all up. It was 4pm and the once brilliant sun was beginning its slow descent. Jake stood motionless, staring out into the forsaken Nevada desert. All he knew was it was just too damn hot to do much else. He listened for any sign of life under the bluest of blue skies. But the silence drowned out everything. He was certain the wail of the sirens would soon come, followed by fuzzy, heat strewn, images of cop cars racing across the sand. A veritable dust storm coming out of their asses.

As it stood, it was Jake, his Dodge Ram, two-ton Hemi pick-up, and four sun bleached, abandoned shacks on a road that seemingly lead to nowhere. The scene was actually quite picturesque. He would have liked to take it in for a few more moments but suddenly declared "fuck it". He walked over to his heat-baked truck. Dealership issue; Midnight Black.

"You gotta be more than 100 degrees by now."

Actually, Jake wasn't normally the type of guy who would name his truck (or favorite handgun). However, the truth was Jake probably cared more about his Hemi than he did about any woman. He had been driving his Hemi pretty much full out for what must have be going on 18 hours. And his baby was ready to keep on going. He had always known that after every woman had run out on him, his Hemi would always be there waiting. Even now in Blue River. In the middle of the Nevada desert. In the 110 degree heat. It was just Jake and his Hemi.

Jake stood in the searing sun with his hands on his hips and a nonplussed expression in his eyes. He surveyed the dried-out, lifeless town named Blue River.

"One gas station, one Safeway's, one Bank of America, one bar, and one man. All abandoned. Fucking story of my life." Jake doubted that there was ever a blue river in the waterless wasteland where he stood. "The only river here is gonna be the one I piss," he said to no one in particular.

As far as he could tell, he was the only person around for miles. Maybe the only living thing, period. There wasn't even a single cow turd to sustain a single fricking cockroach. Not to worry though, he told himself, pretty soon a whole battalion of cops should be showing up for the party. Too bad the bar looked like it hadn't had a bartender for a long while. It would have been nice, if he could suck back a few Buds in air-conditioned comfort, as he waited to be handcuffed. Jake squinted his eyes to meet the gaze of the sun. He immediately remembered with regret that he had forgotten his hat, cowboy hat, that is. He knew exactly where he left it too; on the top of that damn TV set which he hadn't watched since the end of Seinfeld. "Fuck", he cursed the useless TV set and Jerry Seinfeld.

So this is where 18 hours of nonstop pedal to the metal gets you? Blue River. He didn't even have time to stop off at the neighborhood 7-11 for 48oz. slurpies, Cool Ranch Doritos, or a long, comfortable piss. Not when the Oklahoma City cops are on your tail. And the state troopers (who by the way, carry non-department issue shotguns under their front seats!) And now he was in Nevada!! Shit, the other half of the Nevada Police were probably coming this way too. Jake wondered at the wisdom of continuing to run. He felt like shit and the situation smelled even worse. Needless to say, Jake was not in a good mood.

"Might as well cut the losses", he said aloud. "Find a nice down home, country bar with a pretty bartender that serves ice cold Bud. Bud in large glasses, right out of the tap."

That sounded pretty good to Jake because he was no running man. And he was no hunted animal. He moved towards the structure that most looked like it could have been the tavern. He labored through the sand, his boots sinking in with each step. The air was so thick with heat that sound became stuck and didn't move.

Jake knew that the only thing that could lift his spirits out of defeat and save himself from inevitable arrest was, you guessed it, a Bud! Warm, cold, or scorching hot. Jake would drink anything at this point. But it had to be in a bottle. None of that shit in a can! Perhaps more than ever, his life depended on a beer. No matter what, Jake was determined to find a beer. Like an outlaw, staring fearlessly in the sheriff's eyes, Jake walked defiantly through the door and into the tavern. He could feel himself coming to the end of his line. He suddenly felt that he was ready let the cops take him but, not without a gunfight. He only wished he had a gun.

Even if Jake had never wrangled any real cows, the one thing Jake could do was sniff out the local cowboy tavern. Not that Jake wanted to be a real cowboy. He just liked pretending to be one. He liked the penguin suit; the boots, the hat, the ripped jeans, and driving around in a two-ton pick-up. He liked feeling the weight of a gun in his hand. Never shot one, though. He liked the lonesome crooning of Johnny Cash, Hank Williams and the like (maybe because those songs could easily have been about him). More often than not, he usually found himself drinking by himself. His relationships with women usually involved a few drinks at the bar, a couple slow dances, and a night in an unfamiliar bed. Did Jake ever dream of roaming the range on a horse named Silver? Hell no! Besides, the thought of being out in the middle of nowhere, sitting around the campfire with a bunch of cowboys, wasn't his idea of fun. Jake wasn't no Brokeback. Christ! He figured he wouldn't be able to sleep without sirens blaring, women screaming at their drunk men, and stray cats fucking.

Now, you folks out there, might be wondering what precipitated Jake's bizarre and unexplained flight into the desert? What could the cops want with a man like Jake?

You may very well know men just like Jake. Men who have the balls to do things that men sometimes do. For example, take a drunk bar slut home for a night, shoot a man in cold blood, rob a bank to save his family from starvation, or perhaps even stab the man who called his girl a whore.

Surprising or not, it all came down to a woman.
It was an answer he could barely admit to himself. "Shit!", Jake cursed himself. But she was not just any woman. She was the woman that more lawyers, accountants, judges, and television evangelists would swear that they didn't know.

Violet Blue, the nastiest stripper in the southwest.


(Read Part 2.)