High Desert High

by Steven Schindler

  There it was: his new home. He stopped in front of his locked wood and wire gate and killed the engine. He stood outside the car and closed his eyes. He reveled in the pure silence. The loudest sound he could hear was a lifetime of city that was still humming inside his head. He wondered how long it would take to quiet those inner noises ringing in his ears, in his brain, from a lifetime of the subway’s squealing wheels and of diesel engines idling in traffic. Horn-honking expletive-screaming-in-foreign-languages cabbies competing with mentally ill blood boilers shouting-to-no-one threats and pleas and prayers to be taken away from that corner that stairway that doorway that public restroom that bench. Jack hammers, wrecking balls, elevated trains, bad brake pads, Radio Shack loudspeakers blasting the owner’s favorite music outside bodegas, bars, and bargain-basement junk stores. Barstool blowhards boasting how they’ll fix it all. Bosses berating all those below. Babies, kids, drunks, and junkies in your face, drooling and spitting on the sidewalk and worse. Sirens and claxon bells warning everyone: Bad shit happening just around the corner, get the hell out of the way!

  Opening his eyes, he turned slowly around, the gravel under his feet crunching as he shifted: the only noticeable noise. In the distance, maybe a few hundred yards away, rocky hills, with an inviting path of dirt, hardscrabble, Joshua trees, assorted cactus, and tiny vegetation. He wanted to know each by name. When he was a kid growing up in the Bronx, the best times were always seeking places where there was nothing. Not nothing nothing. But no people, no houses, no cops, no El’s, no parent’s spying eyes, no concrete, no bricks, no strange kids who wanted to rip you off or punch you in the face for no reason. And in that part of the North West Bronx there were places like that. There was Van Cortlandt Park. Over a thousand acres of everything most kids would give their throwing arm for: baseball fields, golf courses, playgrounds, football fields, ponds, woods, hiking trails, cricket fields, a lake, and even a swamp. But what Paul and his friends longed for were the quiet places away from the rest of the kids. They named the swamp the Okefenokees, which was actually the upper reaches of Van Cortlandt lake. It had rowboat rentals, picnickers, dog walkers, and sometimes lurking perverts. But who would venture into the stinky, mucky, swamp smelling of centuries of duck and turtle crap? Kids who longed for adventure. But it took some mischief to be able to explore such a forbidden place.

  Long ago, when city kids spent more time outdoors than in their apartments staring at computer screens, Paul and Mickey would cobble together some fishing line, hooks, and a long, thin tree branch as a fishing pole – hoping to look like law-abiding young people – and rent a rowboat at the Vannie lake. They rowed around the lake a couple times and even fished in place for close to a half hour, in case anyone was suspicious of their motives. Then they rowed slowly to the far end of the lake where there was a railroad trestle, which was a gateway to the Okefenokees. There they were met by two other guys, on top of the railroad bridge, only about four feet over the surface of the water. Their partners in crime, Buddy and Mac, at great personal peril of falling into four feet of lake muck, climbed halfway down the chain-link fence and pulled up the bottom of the fence, allowing Paul and Jamey to duck down and go under the bridge into the forbidden swamplands. It wasn’t really stealing because they would one day return the boat to the dock. But probably at the end of summer. Or next summer. Many a hot afternoon, those pre-pubescent kids would have Huck Finn adventures in the swamps with the rowboat, which was concealed expertly by camouflage after each use. But never, ever, not once did they ever encounter any other kids or grownups in the muck and mire of the Van Cortlandt swamps. They were free to fish, chase frogs, smoke cigarettes, look at Playboys, shoot sling shots, or just sit on a fallen tree trunk. There were other places of refuge from civilization in Vannie: deep woods, the top of giant rocks, under bridges, and in secretly constructed forts. The best hideouts were places that had some inherent danger that kept the easily frightened away. And that’s what Paul loved about his new home and the thousands upon thousands of untouched acres of rough desert that were now his backyard.

  Paul heard something and whipped around, facing his gate. Could it be? Yup, there they were, a woman and a man on horseback coming up his driveway.

  “Hello neighbor!” said the woman, long gray hair down her shoulders with a straw cowboy hat on top. “Are you the new owner?”

  Paul was momentarily stunned at the sight of the visitors. “Yes. I’m just taking possession today, as a matter of fact.”

  “Congratulations! I told Mike here to buy it, but he who hesitates doesn’t get the deal!” said the woman, laughing a loud laugh that made her horse jerk his head up.

  “I’m Mabel, and this is Mike. I live about a mile down the road. It’s the Big Horn Horse Rescue Ranch. You can probably see it from your roof. It’s the red house with the red barn. I’m so glad somebody finally got this place. It was not the pride of the neighborhood for a while.”

  Mabel had high cheekbones, Asian eyes, and that leathery wrinkled skin that desert dwellers attain after decades of exposure to the sun and dust. From a distance, it was easy to see she was a beauty, but with each step closer, her age was revealed and put her close to seventy. Paul thought she might be an Indian. Mike was a young, clean-cut fellow, and Paul thought he could be in the military.

  He took a few steps closer, and cautiously petted Mabel’s horse. It was the first time he had done that when not paying 25 bucks an hour. “Glad to meet you Mabel. Mike. What was going on here?”

  “Don’t really know. But the nut-job who last lived here is gone and that’s a good thing. Drove his pickup drunk, speeding past my place for beer runs, which was a huge problem because we have animals all over the place. And he was always crashing into something. Cops at his house. Gunshots fired. Ambulances. Swat teams.”

  “Stop, you’re making me homesick!”

  “You must be from L.A. We get a lot of ex-cops moving up here. The Hollywood crowd usually stays down in Joshua Tree.”

  “No. New York.”

  “New York City?” Mabel asked, shocked.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “How the hell did you wind up here?” asked Mike.

  “Oh, my daughter is moving nearby, so here I am.”

  “Where’s she living?” Mabel asked.

  “Twentynine Palms.”

  “Is she in the military?” Mike asked with interest.

  “No. Just … getting away from New York for a while.”

  “Can’t get much farther without needing a boat,” Mabel giggled. “We’re going for a ride in the BLM. If you ever want to go for a ride, stop by!”

  They turned and walked down the driveway, made a right, and were on a trail in the BLM. Paul watched them go up a small hill and disappear behind some boulders. Just like the Wild West! He thought to himself. And he hoped that didn’t include everything about the Wild West.

  Paul knew he had his work cut out for himself and wasted no time. Trips to the Super Walmart for paint, furniture, tools, and appliances, were the first steps to begin turning his house into a home. And shopping in a Super Walmart was also the best way to see the cross-section of humanity that inhabited these parts, including actual cowboys and Indians. Plus tweakers, hobos, huge Mexican families, blonde blue-eyed refugees from Hollywood, black, Asian, lesbian, gay, survivalists, hippies, active military, and ancient elderly barely able to steer their in-store motorized sit-on-top-and-drive mega shopping carts. He wondered how each of them would disperse when they exited the parking lot, and what kind of places they lived in.

  He got a lot accomplished the next several days, cleaning, painting, fixing up, and he hung on the wall the only item he had taken from home: a framed team photo of the World Champion 1986 New York Mets. He was ready to start calling in some pros to get the difficult jobs done. First was a floor guy to take up the wall-to-wall shag carpeting and install tiles throughout the house. It would keep the house cooler in the summer, and in the winter you just scatter s
ome area rugs. It only took a few calls and before he knew it, an early 1980s truck was in his driveway with a magnetic sign attached to the side reading FLOORS GALORE. After a few minutes of measuring, he gave Paul an estimate for laying ceramic tiles throughout the house, and the deal was done. He would back in a few hours with the materials to start the job.

  Thomas the tile guy was a small man with dark, deep-set eyes. He could have been sixty if going by his face or forty if going by his wiry body. A soiled baseball cap was worn backwards as he unloaded heavy boxes of tiles from the back of his truck. He was all bone and sinew.

  “That road up here has the steepest grade in the state. I didn’t know if the truck was going to make it with this load. We’ve both got some mileage on us,” he grunted as he piled boxes of tile onto a handcart.

  Paul tried to stay out of Thomas’ way, painting in the back bathroom. Every once in a while he would peek into a room to watch as Thomas pulled up carpeting, decrepit padding, and assorted layers of linoleum and tiles.

  “You know some floor guys might stop a job to have these kitchen tiles pulled up and tested for asbestos. I just scrape ‘em up! I’ve been smoking since I was twelve. What the hell difference would it make now anyway to breathe in some of that stuff? Maybe it’ll fireproof my lungs!”

  Thomas announced he was taking a lunch break and began eating what looked like a homemade burrito

  “Mind if I join you?” Paul asked, as he grabbed some ham and cheese out of the refrigerator and made a sandwich.

  “Be my ghost,” Thomas chuckled. “Where did you move from?”

  “New York City. You’ve heard of it?”

  Thomas gagged a little. “New York? How did a New Yorker wind up here?”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s just say family matters.”

  “Say no more. I’ve got ex-wives, kids, and a stable full of animals that keeps me working like a mule. You got here just in time, too.”

  Paul looked up from slopping some mustard on his bread. “How’s that?”

  “The cities. You gotta see what’s coming. Riots, mayhem, race wars, terrorism, the breakdown of society.”

  “Oh, that.” Paul said, taking the first bite of his sandwich. “What’s going to happen here?”

  “Our militia, we got it all mapped out. Ain’t nobody coming up that highway that doesn’t live here, once the you-know-what hits the fan. We got blockades planned at strategic points. You’re lucky you’re one of us now.”

  “One of who?”

  “Us. Up here. We got enough food, water, and weaponry to keep them out for months.”

  “Who are you keeping out?”

  “The coastal elites. They’re gonna be the first ones to get it, and they’re all gonna flee like stuck pigs to get away from rioters and head up here. We ain’t letting ‘em in.”

  “But I’m good?”

  “You live here. You’re good.”

  “I like that. You’re right. I am lucky.” Paul said, nodding in agreement. “By the way, how long is this job going to take you?”

  “Three days, I reckon.”

  “Perfect.”

  “By the way, if you want to invest in gold, I’ve just the guy for you! Paper money won’t be worth diddly once it all goes down. You get good discounts if you mention our militia group.”

  Paul had heard of these militias. He assumed they were just overgrown boy scouts. But he liked the concept of, You’re here, you’re one of us. He had been stereotyped throughout his life for many things: being dark-skinned, too light-skinned, being a jock, being a cop, and being a male. Now he was in just because he lived somewhere.

  “I’ll let you know about that gold thing. You’ll take a personal check for payment for the flooring job?”

  “Check, credit, cash, gold, whatever you got!”

  He couldn’t deny that Thomas knew his craft. He worked quickly, quietly, with amazing attention to detail, down to tiny pieces of hand-cut tiles for corners, doorways, and room transitions. He just hoped the militia didn’t show up in the middle of the night and take him hostage. Who would pay the ransom?

  With no furnishings in the house except for a beach chair and small refrigerator until the flooring was complete, Paul had to sleep in a sleeping bag in a corner of the house where the construction wasn’t too disruptive. This would be the first night in his new home, such as it was. At least he had plumbing and electricity.

  As dark as the desert night was outside, inside the house was a darkness Paul had never experienced. Total pitch-black nothingness. At first he thought it would lead to his best night of sleep ever. Then it began: the noises. First he thought it was a baby crying. But with no houses within several hundred yards, it couldn’t be that, unless someone abandoned one just beyond his fence. Then it sounded like a yip from puppy. A lost puppy seemed almost as unlikely as a baby. But then, it hit! It sounded like somebody just threw a cat into the hyena cage at the zoo. There were yips and squeals. Screeches and growls and barks and gags. Fights and fits and gnashing of teeth, claws and flesh being torn into. It sounded like maybe ten or twenty wild, crazed, primal animals going at it for close to a minute. Then suddenly it stopped. He listened closely. Nothing. Just a silence as deep and dark as the night. The investigation for the source of this mayhem would have to wait until morning. There were other sounds that caused him to awaken, thinking another zombie apocalypse might be starting again outside his window. He attributed that to other animals or birds grabbing a quick snack, rather than feeding the entire pack.

  With no window coverings, the early summer sun was in his face like a spotlight in an interrogation room. He put on some shoes and carefully avoided walking on the mess of flooring, tools, and old carpeting, and made his way to a coffee maker.

  The red sun rising over the rocky hills created a scene rivaled only by his favorite John Ford westerns. And now he was part of the scene. Curious from last night’s cacophony of carnage, he took a walk around his property, coffee mug in hand. It was impossible to tell where it might have come from, but then he saw amongst the brown desert dirt a scattering of small wispy material. He reached down a picked up a tiny clump of pure white fluff. It had to be the white cottontail of a bunny. But that was it. No skull, no bones, no rabbit’s foot. He wondered what became of the little critter, but then again decided he’d rather not know. Some things are better left un-thought of.

  Thomas the tiler showed up at eight and began to work. Only now he wasn’t so quiet. As he scraped and cut tile and laid tile and smeared cement he went on non-stop about globalists getting ready to put Americans in concentration camps, black helicopters, the grid being neutralized, food becoming poisoned, Mexico re-taking California, and so many paranoid scenarios it caused Paul to put down his paint brush in exasperation.

  “I’ll be back in a while, Thomas. Do you need anything? Some lunch?”

  “Could you pick me up a steak burrito from Santana’s Mexican food? Extra spicy, please.”

  “No problem. I’ll be back in couple hours,” Paul said as he admired the beautiful work Thomas had already completed. He decided to cruise around the area.

  The Big Horn Horse Rescue was only about a mile down a washboard road, so he thought he’d give a visit. It could be a good way to get back into horseback riding again like he did as a kid in Van Cortlandt Park. In the distance, he saw a few large animals in the road and wasn’t quite sure what they were. He slowed down as he approached and decided to park the car along the side of the road so as not to frighten any of them. He was about 30 yards away walking slowly toward what must be the horse rescue ranch, and in the road there were two llamas, a camel, and a goat. While they were lumbering along, several large dogs crossed the road from one part of the ranch, apparently, to the other. At the entrance to the ranch he could see the gate was ajar, and that the animals must have slipped out. On the other side he could see a lady talking on the phone sitting under an umbrella next to a small, silver Airstream trailer. She seemed to be aware tha
t her animals were in the road, but didn’t seem to care. Paul just stood there by the gate and observed.

  There were many horses everywhere. Some looked emaciated, some looked like they could win the Kentucky Derby tomorrow. The lady put down her phone and noticed Paul. It was Mabel.

  He couldn’t tell when she was sitting on the horse the other day, but she was tiny. She probably weighed 100 pounds, but her walk showed she still had the strength and agility of someone half her age as she paused to push a big pile of horse manure to the side with a shovel. She looked right at Paul and said, “Harry Truman said, ‘Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day.’ Glad you stopped by!”

  “This place is great! I haven’t seen this many animals in one place since I busted a kid selling pills at the Bronx Zoo.” Paul said, as he took a position by her on the other side of the split-rail fence. “Do you rent horses?”

  “Sure. Depending on my workload and if I have any volunteers around to guide you. Just check back. So, you were in law enforcement?”

  “Yes. All my life, pretty much.”

  “We need more cops out here. You dial 911 and you’re lucky if somebody shows up in an hour. Or at all. That’s why everybody has an arsenal in the house.”

  “You too?”