We see neither heaven nor earth, but the wind continues to blow his sand.
Driven by wind through the can rolled on national dilapidated, in spurts, in the light tinkling of his rusty metal. She went through what was the area of the station, a pump hesitated cons, rebounded against the blower to the pipe burst, and finally touched a rattlesnake coiled on the pit emptying. But he has not even lifted his head, nor heard his rattle. Here, snakes do not care. They are like us, they do not care at all. They wait.
is the annoying sound of the can bounce on the cabin of the station that reminded me that I was thirsty. It was the afternoon a day that I would never really there. There are days like that, days before leaving that we have opened our eyes. Here, there is nothing to eat, or stuff then lyophilized in dispensers. And the fountains of fresh water that survive, one wonders how and by whom they are replenished. But I shall not want since I'm here.
I do not count, I do not expect either. A good moment I got there by car - my old Volvo T5 - on a light throttle. More fuel in the tank, the gauge was flashing red, and then at all.
I just find the essence: I sneers and still others with me. Other? These are the ones who came before me in this hole. Jeff, Had, Emilio. They took up positions in what they have found available around: the carcass of a bus, a caravan, a mobile home.
At least I have a corner to me. Apart from those pesky rattlesnakes that are stashed everywhere, we can not really complain.
This is not what I thought, that's all. Today is Monday
, or something like that. The sun comes up every day like, like a fried egg. Yellow on top, while white sand around. It still happens, new on the national and tight lines. It happens every day, believe you me, and start all over again. They want a place to sleep, they are looking for gasoline, something to eat, advice to protect against rattlesnakes.
They only print anything, they are unkempt, bewildered, angry. They all say they have an important appointment, they should call emergency someone, a someone, it's a matter of life or death. You bet.
First, it means they believe it is the phone, which is already a manifest error of assessment. Then, they estimate that there would still be someone to listen. The
idiots, be allowed to say. They
also inevitably ask what time the bus goes to town. But there is no bus, that's what they do not understand. There is no city either, at least to my knowledge.
It discerns well at night, like a glow behind the rock barrier. Some say the evening, there are at the top like a giant statue of a serpent. In brass. Illuminated by spotlights blinding. But we can not reasonably call it a city either. Moreover, those who tried to go there never came back.
arrived, all they need to explain from the beginning, it's exhausting. And they seem enclosed in their night is a lost cause. Only those arriving by ambulance, the gallows over their skinny arms or during an infusion, which seem to borrow some wisdom. Some seem familiar, they nod knowingly. They are very pale, as white fog that idea. We salute them briefly, they tear their infusion and were told that "it's going to go now." It remains
sometimes in their eyes like a ray, can be a revolt, but do not stop at that and go home soon is shelter. Yes, I think that's what to do, and yet without regret.
The important thing is to keep a residual space. That's what I do. I'm happy in my station. Except rattlesnakes. That's still a brood, as the saying right away.
It's everywhere, day and night. At first I was killing them with blows of the key to drain, or I could lay my hands on. But it is to remake each passing day. Their bite is horribly painful, but strangely, it does not die. It swells not. It's like an electric fence for cattle, a punishment that would come regularly and by surprise, reminding us that we screwed up. And it will pay for it. When one thinks he has had his account, it reverts to the fund, and even faster.
At nightfall, it's time for fools. They arrive on the national, pushing their shopping carts with their meager belongings metal, shouting and gesticulating in the sand-laden wind that is imbued everywhere and squealing teeth. Invariably, one of them, a big redhead pale as a dish, mounted on a barrel of oil and engine knocking on it with a monkey wrench. Then he recites: "If you continue to promise us without giving us, create all the abundance of poor desires, you will come from other, more and more poor, O my brothel chart, and less accommodating me. That is why you'll die all. "(1).
And then night threw his black cloak over it all, the insane, the carcasses atrocious bangers Sand, rattlesnakes coiled on the seats smashed, and did not speak again until the next evening.
I will then lie down in the seat of the gate of the station.
There is still an old Texaco road schedule posted on the wall, the colors turn blue under the effect of the sun. It's a naked girl, who rejects his three-fingered white satin thong. She looks at me with a baleful eye.
That too much to say, it is surprising at first. There no woman, but then at all. The innovation is that it does not lack either. More desire, a few vague memories that float, nebulae necropolis.
night, we clearly see a few that turn up in dreams, but they are immersed in the strangeness. They are usually strapped in purple satin shirts, hoisted on high heels and each hold a sheep on a leash. And then they go in the morning, beautiful, beautiful, beast as day.
short, do not worry about that.
These are stories that dreams faded as an old man who speaks of spring, when we were young, but today all that we once had to itself, it went behind.
This is said to be Had, my neighbor across the cafeteria. An elder, wise old man. Still, he left one night on the road with his stick fortune.
I liked her, Had, but here, do not get too attached. On its face, there was a dismal expression of gender in life, no, I will not go much further than that. Such as "another blow like that and it's a head older than I pay." That's why he went to see the mountain and statue making. After a few days he has gone, as was his destiny from the beginning, and it hit the desert as a kind of fall.
I do not know if these things are fair or not, but that's how it happened.
I hope that the issue came to him like the wind that erases everything. And she carries him and all that that meant.
Had, Had his name was. It goes directly where it is the best one.
There is also Emilio, who arrived at about the same time as me. He sleeps in his Alfa Romeo 166 on the parking lot of my station. He is still in its juice, as it came. Valentino suit his now full of dust, his shirts and Armani sunglasses to match. It worries me a bit, Emilio because he is struggling to adapt. That evening, I spoke endlessly about women, their perfume, smell, the whole range of their cries and moans, the positions they took and he mimes with his hands. He also talks incessantly about what he lost, saltimbocca alla romana, the Barolo, the al dente farfalle , ristretto coffee and light brown foam steaming well. It's full of smells, his stories, but here it does not help.
So, I listen in silence, and I nodded gravely by one who understands. There is nothing else we can do without making a mistake in these cases.
One day when I still managed to get rid of it, I went to the pit to drain. I slipped on oil and banged my forehead on the metal lift. The pain struck me, and I'm sprawled on the floor greasy. Immediately, I heard the rattle of a rattlesnake that was there. He bent his body into rings and statement the neck to hit. I was struck, beaten, and have made no attempt to flee. Besides, he would have had time to hit before I could sketch anything. I waited for the bite, one more ... Against all odds, he gradually relaxed after a protracted moment, rested his head like a flat shovel on the ground, six inches from my face. I distinctly saw his thin, forked tongue that came intermittently, and its thin slit pupils like a skirt. And then, very clearly, emphasizing his words, he said: "You have these lives, though, is to cry."
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-Credit: Troy Pava site "Lost America".
- (1) Jean-Patrick Cuff in "The case N'Gustro" on page 246, Gallimard Black Square.
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