48: Arizona
- population:
- 6,500,180
- households:
- 1,901,327
- housing units:
- 2,667,502
- square miles:
- 113,635
- characters:
- 6
- paragraphs:
- 19
- graphemes:
- 2,668
- narrator:
- 2nd person
Start
You lean in to blow on the fire, gently coaxing the flames from tinder to twigs to branches, then sit back on your heels to watch.
The desert is pink and purple in the sunset. In the distance, the dark green wooded mountaintops of the Sierra Madre float like islands, rising up from the ocean of the plains.
You take the letter from your backpack and read it again. “Tucson High School class of 1980 30-year reunion,” it says across the top, “November 24, 2010.”
Well, why the hell not. You climb into the dirt-brown Chinook and pat Rusty on the head. His tail gives a halfhearted, sleepy wag.
Spit in your hand and brush back your hair, check your face for stubble in the mirror, sniff your armpits and smell your breath. Nothing. You smile.
It’s been 30 years; you could tell them anything … so which story do you want to tell?
For denial, go to 1
For anger, go to 2
For bargaining, go to 3
For despair, go to 4
For acceptance, go to 5
1.
“Everything went great at 3M after my big invention,” you tell Rob, whose fat, sagging face you barely recognize. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
You wait for the obvious question but he’s busy drinking, so you take a sip of scotch then go on. “Anyway, that’s around when I finally married my sweetheart Shelly and bought our house on Lake Superior. It’s beautiful up there.”
2.
“Actually, Larry, the whole story about how I invented Post-it Notes is a joke, and I never liked that bitch.” You wink and clap him on the arm. “Truth is, I’m an assassin.”
Larry laughs. You toss back your scotch and reach inside your jacket. “You think that’s funny?” you ask. “Say you prayers, asshole.”
3.
“It wasn’t fair!” You’re talking to this girl you had a crush on all through 10th grade, you’re pretty sure. “Shelly got pregnant and I had to marry her. She’s been holding it over my head ever since.”
You finish off one scotch and hoist the other. “I’ve made a killing,” you continue, “but it’s all gone to her … for another house, another car, you name it.” You lean in for a kiss. “But if I could turn back time, I’d trade it all for you,” you glance down at her breasts and nametag, “Brenda.”
4.
You’re six or seven scotches in when Shelly finds you slumped over at a table in the corner. “What are you doing here?” you ask, the words slurring together, like somebody tried to scrub them out with an off-brand eraser.
“I heard about that dirty movie you made of us, you pig,” she says. “Now you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
5.
“I live in a van out in the hills by I-10,” you shout from your perch atop the DJ table. “I lost my job at 3M last year. The bank took my home, my wife left me; my kids won’t answer my calls. I’ve lost everything,” You look at the glass of scotch shaking in your hand, and put it down, “but I’ve found myself.”
The DJ, Scott something-or-other, is nodding his head, either in agreement or to the music. “I wanna rock with you,” the speakers sing, “all night.” Everybody keeps dancing.
End
You open your eyes and stare out the windshield. Another stupidly beautiful sunset is just ending. Beside you, Rusty barks and wags his tail.
You fold the letter up and put it back in its envelope, get out of the van, and toss it into the fire. The ashes and embers rise like moths, the invitation going up in smoke, like a dream.
You lean in to blow on the fire, gently coaxing the flames from tinder to twigs to branches, then sit back on your heels to watch.
The desert is pink and purple in the sunset. In the distance, the dark green wooded mountaintops of the Sierra Madre float like islands, rising up from the ocean of the plains.
You take the letter from your backpack and read it again. “Tucson High School class of 1980 30-year reunion,” it says across the top, “November 24, 2010.”
Well, why the hell not. You climb into the dirt-brown Chinook and pat Rusty on the head. His tail gives a halfhearted, sleepy wag.
Spit in your hand and brush back your hair, check your face for stubble in the mirror, sniff your armpits and smell your breath. Nothing. You smile.
It’s been 30 years; you could tell them anything … so which story do you want to tell?
For denial, go to 1
For anger, go to 2
For bargaining, go to 3
For despair, go to 4
For acceptance, go to 5
1.
“Everything went great at 3M after my big invention,” you tell Rob, whose fat, sagging face you barely recognize. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
You wait for the obvious question but he’s busy drinking, so you take a sip of scotch then go on. “Anyway, that’s around when I finally married my sweetheart Shelly and bought our house on Lake Superior. It’s beautiful up there.”
2.
“Actually, Larry, the whole story about how I invented Post-it Notes is a joke, and I never liked that bitch.” You wink and clap him on the arm. “Truth is, I’m an assassin.”
Larry laughs. You toss back your scotch and reach inside your jacket. “You think that’s funny?” you ask. “Say you prayers, asshole.”
3.
“It wasn’t fair!” You’re talking to this girl you had a crush on all through 10th grade, you’re pretty sure. “Shelly got pregnant and I had to marry her. She’s been holding it over my head ever since.”
You finish off one scotch and hoist the other. “I’ve made a killing,” you continue, “but it’s all gone to her … for another house, another car, you name it.” You lean in for a kiss. “But if I could turn back time, I’d trade it all for you,” you glance down at her breasts and nametag, “Brenda.”
4.
You’re six or seven scotches in when Shelly finds you slumped over at a table in the corner. “What are you doing here?” you ask, the words slurring together, like somebody tried to scrub them out with an off-brand eraser.
“I heard about that dirty movie you made of us, you pig,” she says. “Now you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
5.
“I live in a van out in the hills by I-10,” you shout from your perch atop the DJ table. “I lost my job at 3M last year. The bank took my home, my wife left me; my kids won’t answer my calls. I’ve lost everything,” You look at the glass of scotch shaking in your hand, and put it down, “but I’ve found myself.”
The DJ, Scott something-or-other, is nodding his head, either in agreement or to the music. “I wanna rock with you,” the speakers sing, “all night.” Everybody keeps dancing.
End
You open your eyes and stare out the windshield. Another stupidly beautiful sunset is just ending. Beside you, Rusty barks and wags his tail.
You fold the letter up and put it back in its envelope, get out of the van, and toss it into the fire. The ashes and embers rise like moths, the invitation going up in smoke, like a dream.
November 29, 2010