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By S.A. Stovall
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The Night Sky Festival
By S.A. Stovall
Photographer Zach is happy to pack up his gear and head to the Mojave Desert over the holidays. Ever since his ex-husband filed for divorce a day before Christmas, it’s safe to say this isn’t Zach’s favorite time of year.
Fortunately, he stumbles upon a town where the residents seem to agree. The good people of Baker would much rather celebrate the possibility of extraterrestrials as they dance under the stars in their unique “Night Sky Festival.” The locals are interesting, to say the least, and they want Zach to join them.
But is Zach ready to let go of his holiday bitterness? And if so, whose invitation should he accept: the cute cashier, the burly single dad, or the sexy fun-loving cop?
To Gail, for whom the story is written.
THE TOWN of Baker—if it even qualifies as a town and not a dirt hovel—sits on the edge of the Mojave Desert. Its claim to fame? They have a store named Alien Fresh Jerky. It sells purple-colored “abducted cow” jerky. It sits just down the road from the world’s tallest thermometer. It’s always hovering around the boiling point, even in the middle of December.
Which is why I hate this crazy town.
With a sigh and a curse on my breath, I wait in line to purchase my pack of bottled water and bundle of gum. The alien-themed store might give other people a sense of whimsy and merriment, but it all looks cheap and kitsch. Each beep of the cash register grates on my already thin patience.
“Have a wonderful day,” the cashier says in the same happy-go-lucky tone every time he finishes with a customer.
Have a wonderful day.
The words stew in my thoughts as I take another step forward. This cashier works at the speed of milk curdling. Most modern stores have self-checkout, but the town of Baker has less than one thousand residences, so there’s nothing modern around here. Well, maybe the Arco gas station.
“Have a wonderful day,” he says again as he finishes with the customer in front of me.
I slam my bottled water on the conveyer belt and toss the gum on afterward. The cashier—a young man, perhaps twenty-three—smiles wide, no hint of irritability about him.
“How are you this afternoon?” he asks.
“Swell,” I reply, all sarcasm and no humanity.
“Trying to keep cool in this heat?” He takes his sweet time scanning my water. “It can get really hot when there aren’t any clouds.”
“Hm.”
“I’ve never seen you before. Driving through? You look like you might be on your way to Las Vegas for Christmas.” He motions to my button-up shirt and clean slacks. Everyone else here sports shorts, jeans, tank tops, or T-shirts. Most have flip-flops. If I had been smart, I would’ve packed myself some cooler outfits as well, but this is my punishment for being arrogant, I guess.
“I wish I was heading for Vegas,” I say. “Unfortunately, I’m stuck here until after the New Year. Lucky me.”
“Stuck here?” the cashier asks. He scans the gum. His eyebrows knit together.
“I’m a photographer. I’ve come to get a collection of photographs for a magazine.”
“Which one?”
“That’s confidential,” I snap.
The guy recoils but quickly recovers with a nervous laugh. “Oh. Uh, sounds fun. The Mojave Desert has all sorts of interesting sights. Most people don’t see the beauty when they’re just drivin’ through. I’m glad you’re gonna take pictures.”
The register beeps three times and then powers down. The cashier stares at it. I stare at it. The old woman in line stares at it. Seconds crawl into minutes.
“Well?” I ask.
“Oh, it does this occasionally. Just give it a bit.”
Sweet Baby Jesus give me the patience to make it through this.
Why couldn’t I have been sent to Hawaii? Or New York? Or the Bahamas? Why did it have to be the middle of nowhere? And why did it have to be in the worst town known to man? Anything would have been better than this crap hole. Literally anything.
The old woman, hunched over like an upside down J, hums to herself.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll try to be quick once the damn machine works.”
She smiles. “I’m in no rush, dear. You take your time.”
The cashier rubs at his neck and then offers me a lopsided smile. “Hey, if you’re gonna be in town for the holidays, why don’t you join us for our Night Sky Festival? It’s really amazing. I bet you’ll get a ton of great pictures.” He grabs a pamphlet from a nearby stand and hands it over. It reads:
Join us Dec. 24th for the Night Sky Festival!
Bring the kids! And look out for UFOs!
“I don’t do Christmas,” I say as I push the pamphlet back.
“It’s not a Christmas thing, I swear. Anybody of any religion can join. It’s really about everyone—”
“You don’t get it. It’s not a religious thing.” Even tangentially mentioning the incident two years ago gets under my skin. I huff and narrow my eyes into a glare. “My ex-husband filed for divorce a few days before Christmas. And then he had the decency to tell me about it on Christmas Eve. So, forgive me, but I don’t feel like partying out in the desert on such an auspicious anniversary.”
The cashier frowns.
“What?” I ask with a huff. “Country bumpkins around here never heard of a man marrying another man? Is that it?”
He lifts both hands and shakes his head. “Oh, no. It’s not that.”
“Then what was that look for?”
“I’m just surprised someone would leave a man as good-lookin’ as yourself, that’s all. Kind of hard to believe.”
The old woman nods along with the sentiment. “You do remind me of my late husband. He was a movie star, he was.”
“Oh, yeah. He has the same blue eyes as Sammy. You’re totally right.”
For a moment my mind grinds to a halt.
Is… the cashier hitting on me?
I figured I’d never find anyone in a backwater town who wasn’t a Bible-thumpin’ red-blooded man who only likes women, thank you very much—but this is California, after all. I wouldn’t be surprised if they changed their state animal to a rainbow.
I give the cashier the once-over. He’s lean, wide of shoulder, and with an interesting haircut. Long on top, shaved on the sides, like a starter mohawk. Dark hair that matches his tanned skin and highlights the light green of his irises. His expression is the most striking, however. Straightforward and clear—like he’s never lied in his life, his emotions plain as the white shirt he’s wearing under his red apron.
I can’t believe I realize how good-looking he is. I blame the heat. And the time of year. And everything in this town.
The name tag on his shirt reads: ETHAN.
Like a sputtering idiot, I attempt to gather a few words together. “Well, uh, thank you, Ethan. For that.”
The cash register beeps, informing the world it’s finally ready to work again, and Ethan rescans everything, this time without any delay. “Don’t mention it. That’ll be six-fifty.”
I take one of the pamphlets as the card reader does its thing. “Maybe I will attend this thing. If you don’t mind.”
If you don’t mind? Why did I even say that? He invited me. I need to get my head in the game.
“Y-yeah. That would be great.” Ethan smiles wider, somehow. “What’s your name?”
“Zach.”
“I’ll see you there, Zach.”
I gather up my t
hings and leave the Alien Fresh Jerky, still in a daze about the encounter. The last thing on my mind for this trip was meeting someone.
My cynical side comes back in full force.
Why would I meet anyone here? That’s crazy and a waste of my time. Relationships don’t typically work out for me anyway.
STANDING AT the base of the world’s tallest thermometer, I take a few pictures up into the brilliant blue of the sky, making sure to get most of the thermometer in the shot. Without any cloud cover, the desert winter burns more than it should, and the nonexistent breeze makes everything ten times worse. Still, the thermometer amuses me, at least. It stands 134-feet tall, like a spire reaching for the edge of the atmosphere.
And this year is a record-breaking high for December—over eighty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. Outrageous. Average temperatures for the region should be in the low sixties.
But I push the heat from my mind and focus on the terrible composition of shots. It would be better if I had something, or someone, to add scale and context. Something interesting. Unfortunately, the town of Baker doesn’t really flow with tourists. Abducted cow jerky isn’t enough to draw people in, apparently.
“Excuse me.”
I tense and whirl around.
A man stands behind me, tall and thick with muscle. And hair. He’s the kind of man who defines the term “bear,” and it took me a moment to get my mind off gay terminology. I look him up and down, impressed by his physique. Two good-looking men in the middle of nowhere? What’re the odds?
I blame Ethan. I hadn’t even thought about such stuff since my divorce.
“Do I have food on my face?” the guy asks as he strokes his short shaved beard.
“Hm?” I ask. “No. You’re fine.”
“You were just staring at me for a moment there.”
“Everything is fine. What do you want?”
“Well, I noticed you were takin’ photos.”
“Heh. Quite the astute observation.”
The guy slowly narrows his eyes into a glower. “Never mind. I’m sorry for botherin’ you.” He turns and walks away, the ice in his stare enough to lower the temperature a few degrees. He strides straight over to a preteen girl sitting on a bench and shakes his head. “Sorry, sweetie. The man’s busy. I’ll just take the photos, okay?”
Although they’re about forty feet away, I can hear everything said, thanks to the lack of traffic and people in every direction. The shifting of the sands doesn’t make much noise.
“But I wanted us both in the photos,” the girl says. “And not in selfie poses. That’s just lame.”
“I know, I know. But we’ve just gotta make do.”
After a long exhale, I sling my camera’s strap over my neck and rest it against my chest. I walk over to the two, forcing a smile, hoping it doesn’t come across as too sheepish or pathetic, and wave.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m done with my photo shoot now, if you two need someone to take a couple pictures for you.”
The man regards me with a sidelong glance, obviously dubious of my presence. The girl, however, jumps up from the bench, her eyebrows high. She’s young—maybe twelve?—but the gothic makeup, black pants, skull shirt, and blue-purple colored hair make it hard to determine her actual age. Although it’s not my aesthetic, she’s clearly put a lot of thought and work into her outfit. And it is amusing to see her next to her father, who wears a polo shirt and a pair of jeans.
“We want pictures next to the thermometer,” she says.
Her father frowns. “Thank the man first, Abby.”
“Thanks for taking pictures. C’mon, Dad! Next to the thermometer, quick!”
Abby jogs a bit and then poses, one hand reaching into the sky as though she’d touch the top. Her father walks toward her but gets close to me first and says, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get all negative, bud. Not for me, but for Abby.”
I give him a curt nod. “Look, I apologize for earlier. I’ll take some nice photos.”
“Good.” The guy pats me on the shoulder. “The name’s Broden. And you are?”
“You can call me Zach.”
“Perfect. Just tell us where we should stand, Zach.” He shoves a cell phone into my grip and then joins his daughter not too far away.
I motion them together and hold up the rectangular device. With little effort, I center them into a pleasant shot. I get a few before motioning them apart. “You should both look in the same direction.” They comply with my suggestion, and I get another few shots. “Now look at each other and smile.” Again, they follow along. “Okay, how about one with the father holding his daughter up on his shoulders.”
Broden stoops down, and Abby climbs onto his massive shoulders. She’s small—enough that Broden doesn’t strain to lift her—and then they’re laughing as she reaches up higher. I crouch low to get an angle where it looks like she’s touching the top of the thermometer.
“Good,” I say. “Just like that.”
Broden is a good dad, and I admire him for that. His smile could dispel all misery, and when he laughs with his daughter, it’s a delightful music that gets me smiling right alongside them.
This is all Ethan’s fault. I wouldn’t have had such thoughts three days ago if I hadn’t run into him. Now I’m looking at every guy like he’s a hot slab of meat. Damn. Maybe I should just get laid.
“Let’s pretend to be pirates, Abby,” Broden says. “Yar!” He even curls his fingers into a faux hook and shakes it around.
“Dad,” Abby says, pink flashing across her face. “I’m not a baby anymore. We need more serious photos.”
“All right, all right.”
The way they interact gets me chuckling. I’ve always wanted to have kids. My ex thought they were noisy poop factories and couldn’t stand the sight of them. It was one of the many things we argued about. He didn’t want to go through with the adoption paperwork, and he didn’t want to pay for anything they would need. A waste of money, he said.
The memories stagnate in my mind, and it takes me a minute to dispel them.
I snap a few more shots before handing back Broden’s phone. Although we hadn’t been moving around much, everyone is still sweating waterfalls by the end of the session. The midafternoon sun is an unforgiving photo partner.
“Thank you,” Broden says as he pats my shoulder again. This time his touch lingers longer than before. I don’t move it away. “Do you live around here?”
“No,” I say. “I’m here for some photos.”
“Is that right? Me and Abby are tryin’ to find some new Christmas traditions to share. Ya know. Unexpected things.”
“Why’s that?”
Broden glances over at his daughter, and once she’s out of earshot, he whispers, “We just moved to California, and I told her we would have an all new life here. Nothin’ the same. Nothin’ that would remind her of the past.”
“Past?” I ask.
“Her and her mother had a fallin’ out.”
“Did you recently get a divorce or something?” I swear my past won’t leave me alone. Even random people are somehow bringing it up.
“No,” Broden says, sheepish in tone, despite his overall confidence. “Me and Molly never married. We got together a few times, and Abby was….”
“An accident?”
“No,” Broden says, glaring. He crosses his massive arms over his barrel chest. “But she was a surprise.”
“But you didn’t want to stay with Molly?”
“I thought I was in love with a man I met at work, and things fell out from there.”
He says the information so casually, it’s hard to be impressed. But, considering Abby’s age, I’m sure that was over a decade ago. All the scandal and drama is long dead, and now he’s just trying to be a good father. Best to leave the subject. I know better than anybody that certain subjects should just stay buried.
“Are you two heading to Vegas?” I ask.
“That was the plan.”
&nb
sp; “Why not attend this Night Sky Festival?” With a quick motion, I pull the pamphlet out of my back pocket and present it to him. “It’s supposed to be different.”
I really had no idea what would happen there, but maybe it would be something fantastical.
“You’ll be there?” Broden asks.
“Yes. Taking pictures.”
“Not with anyone?”
“Well….” Ethan immediately jumps into my mind. I didn’t actually say I would go with him, just that I would be attending. “Let’s just say I had a divorce a few years back, and I’m not looking for anything right now.”
“A few years back?” Broden says with a scoff. “Bud, you need to move on.”
I narrow my eyes into a sardonic gaze. “What insightful advice.”
“Your ex-wife that bad?”
“Ex-husband.”
“Dad, look at this sign!” Abby calls. She points to an alien-man dying in the heat. It’s an amusing sign, and the words are so faded it’s impossible to read. What is the sign trying to warn people about? What’s with UFOs in this town?
“I’ll be right there, sweetie,” Broden shouts back. Then he turns back to me and smiles. “You resemble a guy I knew in high school. He was the biggest flirt. Well, you’re not really like that—” Broden laughs at his own joke while I just remain silent. “—but you seem nicer now that you’re not eating sour grapes.”
“I apologized,” I drawl.
“Well, maybe we’ll see each other at the Night Sky Festival, then.”
“Yes. We probably will.”
Is he flirting with me? Again, it takes me a moment to mull over the situation. I typically stayed away from anything that reminded me of my ex or my divorce. I really don’t like thinking about it, yet here I am, practically dissecting the entire relationship thanks to all these wacky encounters.
Baker is a bizarre place.
WHEN I got my assignment to photograph the UFO-theme town of Baker, I would have rather been sent to a third-world prison instead. Now it doesn’t seem so bad, even as I drive a mile out of town to get a couple more pictures. They’re dull photos, nothing special, and there’s a piece of me that wonders if this’ll be the assignment that gets me fired.
The Night Sky Festival Page 1