The Space Age (1)

[GT Jones]

GILA BEND
WELCOMES YOU
HOME of 1700 friendly PEOPLE
AND 5 OLD CRABS elev.737 ft

And from this sign rose a paved savior, an emigrants paradise, filled with food and fuel, souvenirs and beef jerky. Hand painted sandwich boards sold rocks and international calling cards. Levi’s gait changed. There was purpose in it. Legs, still terribly exhausted, lifted with purpose. Pima Street. The most valuable mercantile of the town aligned in this seam. The necessities of locals and travelers concentrated, streamlined, and tested historically. One flat mile of proven travel necessities. Car repair. Zerox copies. Discount liquor. Hardware. Gasoline. Snacks. Mexican car insurance. Lawn chairs. Styrofoam coolers.

The scent of broiling meat and fryer oil wafted in the air. Smoke billowed from a corrugated aluminum roof. Children in baseball uniforms gathered outside. A walk up, drive-up, all-american cathedral under a plastic light-up sign. The Burger Oasis.

Levi fell in line behind a mother and two nine year old boys dressed in red baseball uniforms. His face still streaked with diesel soot and dried blood, his baseball cap crooked to his head. He smiled but it only seemed to make the mother hold her children tighter.

The Burger Oasis was a two windowed joint; one for ordering, the other for picking up. Full trays of cheeseburgers and French fries spilled from their white paper bags passed by him, steam rising, cups beaded with cold sweat, carted off to family gatherings around outdoor Formica tables. He tried not to stare. It was nearly unbearable. He maintained an extra step behind the mother and her two boys because of his ripeness but not too far. He couldn’t risk his place in line. He’d already pulled some cash from his moneybelt underneath his clothing, folded in his hand. The girl at the counter rested her pen on the ticketbook. “Seriously?” She said.

Henry walked Pima Street with a swagger and a paper bag peaked to its zig-zag rim with cheeseburgers. The first dripping example was pinched between the wax paper wrapper and his 42oz Styrofoam soda cup rattling with crushed ice. He raised both to his face simultaneously, biting into the burger then washing it down with a big slug of Coca Cola. He drank too fast, his head swelling, teeth pinched. Soda dribbled muddy veins from the corners of his mouth.

The traffic became human again. Mosaic windsocks at the Texaco Mini-Mart were stiff in the wind, flying above ceramic burros and lawn gnomes. Ten foot metal dinosaurs welded from scrap metal menaced the slow moving cars and smeared children’s noses against their backseat windows. Three young black men dressed for the desert in pristine white hip hop gear yelled at passing traffic from across the street. The guy in a chef’s hat poked a long-handled fork into the Weber grill. Another danced to the low beat rap coming from the trunk of a purple Buick Regal. Moving as if he were driving the car. Steer the wheel, press the gas, shift the gears, steer the wheel, press the gas, shift the gears. Repeat. Levi watched, suddenly hungry for ribs. The endless hiss from the highway shifted to the squeak of shocks clearing a steep curb, a subdued tap of a horn at a red light turned green. He felt reintroduced, still feral but wanting to go tame.