Cracked asphalt lies atop cracked sand, while an unforgiving cloudless sky reigns from above like a vengeful God. Get a good picture in your mind before we move on, this is important. Imagine a classic desert scene. Like in the movies. You know, the scenes where a single tumbleweed drifts past the frame, just to make it absolutely clear that we are desperately alone. Think John Wayne, but less racist. Even a Mustang stands majestically atop a cliff. Well, it was a Mustang car and it was more lodged into the side of a hill than standing “majestically atop a cliff.” Splayed a few feet away from the crumbled steed was a body, a man’s body, draped across a short, squat cactus. It was the only cactus for miles. Highway traffic had stamped out the once-thriving wildlife. This little cactus very well might have been the key to the reflourishing of this ecological wasteland. But the possibility of salvation for this desperate land was currently suffocating under a man’s sweaty back. It’s chance of survival diminished with every heaving breath the body took. But this story is not about the cactus, it’s about the man with the sweaty back. 

 

You see, Vince had been on a quest that went awry. The way his plans tended to end up, despite his wife’s steadfast confidence. You know who did catch on quick? His wife’s parents. They had dubbed him a “grade A moron” ever since their dinner party when he gathered all the guests to watch him fart against a lighter and make the flames mushroom – his go-to party trick when he was looking to impress. But his wife, Patricia, understood him like no one else. He had more intelligence than he knew what to do with and society bored him. He needed ways to exercise his intellect and strength. That is why he knew Pattsy would understand when he told her his plan, the one that left him passed out on a cactus.

 

He used to call Patricia Patty but when he developed a chronic slur, it would come out, Pattsy, making this her pet name. When he told her his plan, he claimed his mind and his masculinity were being smothered under a Las Vegas suburban nightmare, choking with every neighborhood barbeque. He needed to go out and do this. Besides, it was simple and easy. He would go down to Arizona where some buddies of his had old car parts that were considered junk in Arizona but worth a fortune in Nevada. He said it had something to do with supply and demand differing state to state. He would bring them back home, sell them (completely above board), and make thousands. The story didn’t add up, and she knew that. But, when she looked into his droopy wet eyes, streaked with red, she chose to believe him. Again. The Al-Anon pamphlets always say to support your addict, that’s what she was doing. Besides, he would be gone three days tops. And, as he said, what was three days apart compared to all the money he was going to make for her and the baby? George was only a few months old and already costing the couple a fortune. 

 

Less than 24 hours after that conversation, he was gone. Vanished into the night; a trick he had gotten particularly good at over the years. But, this time, he really felt he was doing right by his family. Perhaps he told a little white lie to Pattsy about what the job entailed, but he did it for her own good. She would have been so worried had he told her the truth. But he had it under control.

 

Here is the real plan: There was this drug ring down in Arizona. He was familiar with their operation as he had been a loyal customer for years, sneaking down on mysterious weekend trips to avoid Nevada gossip getting back to pattsy. The gang wanted to expand its market into Nevada but couldn’t because a rival ring already had control over that territory. So, he would work as a third party, pick up the drugs, bring them over state borders and sell them in his home state. The trick was, he didn’t have any official ties with the ring – no one would be the wiser. When everything was sold, he would pop back down with the profits and split everything (though he hadn’t yet decided if he was actually going to follow through with that part.) 

 

 He knew his plans tended to end in disaster, he had been complaining about it for years. It was this phenomenon, this malevolent force. A force that stalked him, pulling the rug out from under his feet right when he was about to run. But, this was the plan that would make up for all the others, would make up for the times his bad luck affected his wife and now his baby. He would make so much money off this deal Pattsy and George would be set for life.

 

It was about 4am on Sunday and the Nevada highways were quiet. Everything felt soft and fresh. The sweltering afternoon heat and unforgivingly frigid night came to an unsteady balance around this time. This was about the only time US-93 South, from Nevada to Arizona, saw any peace. It was so quiet around this time police didn’t even tend to bother patrolling. This was not lost on Vince. As he split through the subdued atmosphere, whirring down the road at about 95 mph in a 70 mph zone, he laughed and cursed the police. He was well known around the Nevada stations and even if he were to be doing everything right, those pigs would surely recognize his car and pull him over for no good reason. But, this time there was no one to tell him to slow down or question why he was driving on a suspended license or pose invasive questions like Where exactly are you off to, son? He was flying free, blaring the Smiths, “The Queen is Dead” album. This was how he meditated, alone on a dark road speeding and blaring emotional music, with a laced cigarette suffocating between his bulky fingers. 

 

Before we continue, let us take a moment of silence for the few unlucky nine-banded armadilloes who had chosen this time to cross the highway and met their maker in the grill of a Mustang.

 

 Don’t feel too bad, they are invasive species in Nevada. In a way, Vince did a sort of ecological public service. Maybe this makes up for the cactus he will soon suffocate? 

 

Around 7 am, the red glow of the sunrise pierced his eyes and forced Vince to pause his mission and take a dangerous detour. He pulled into a McDonald’s just off I-11. He parked next to a minivan packed with a family engaged in a screaming match. The mom sat in the front, yelling and waving her hand toward the backseat to smack whoever was in reach. The kids sat flat up against the seat to avoid the furious hand, a maneuver they seemed well accustomed to. Vince quickly reversed and pulled into a quieter spot across the parking lot. He reached for the cracked iPhone 4 that occupied the passenger’s seat and prodded at the home screen, cursing under his breath as the screen blinked on and off again. Finally, he got it to obey and scrolled down his recently called list, past the incessant calls from his wife (he had no time for domesticity at the moment). He smashed his index finger against “Fabio” (6 missed calls). Before the first ring finished, “Fabio” answered. 

 

“Dude where the hell are you? We were supposed to meet up like an hour ago!” “Fabio’s” voice cracked with frustration and panic. 

 

“I’m at McDonald’s,” Vince’s voice came out flat and monotone but with a slight flourish from his slur.

           

“What? We’re meeting at the old Blockbuster, why the hell are you at McDonald’s?” “Fabio’s” frustration was slightly subdued by genuine confusion.  

 

“I can’t resist a McMuffin.” Another deadpan one-liner from Vince. 

 

“This isn’t a joke. This is real shit you’re messing with. We trusted you and included you in our business. So if you think -” “Fabio” had started to abandon his confusion as anger became the dominant tone in his voice again. 

 

Vince put the phone on speaker and slid out another cigarette, unbothered. He was used to people being frustrated with him and knew how to talk himself out of it. 

 

“Chill, I’m not even in Arizona yet. I was on schedule when these cops started tailing me. The last thing I wanted was for them to follow me to you guys. So, I went slow and took some back roads. I pulled off into a McDonald’s. I think I lost them. I would just hate for cops to pull up on you all a –––” Vince’s voice went up a few octaves and wandered with every sentence – suddenly cut off. 

 

“Okay. Fine. Just get your ass down here, fast.” “Fabio’s” voice was dry and exhausted, a sign of victory Vince was familiar with. 

 

The line went dead and Vince smiled at himself in the rearview mirror, his cigarette jutting unnaturally upward between his stretched lips, he really knew how to work people. He opened the car door and shoved his long legs out one at a time, twinging with cramps. He sauntered towards the McDonalds entrance. Arizona wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, he suddenly had a hankering for a McMuffin. 

 

The vista became suddenly clear, as he headed down I-11 into Arizona. The sky stretched out for miles and looking out on it, he felt like a real-life cowboy – a childhood aspiration of his. After he reached his exit, the vista was suddenly blocked by a Denny’s, an adult store called Healthy ‘n Regular, and a couple dilapidated gas stations. But, rising triumphantly above it all, the remains of a golden ticket stub, like a beacon there to guide him. He pulled into the abandoned space. “BlockBuster” was still legible from the faded stain the words left on the building. As soon as Vince’s Mustang huffed to a stop, two guys bolted out of a BMW that had been parked in the lot nearly all day, clearly fuming. They would have looked truly menacing had they not been holding Yoo-hoos. They must have snagged them from a gas station while they waited on Vince’s arrival. Before exiting his car, Vince grabbed his phone to text Pattsy. He couldn’t disclose his location so he texted her a slew of emojis, an encrypted message. 

'Car, camera, money, thumbs up, heart.'

To say, "I drove to an old Blockbuster where I met my buddies. Things are going well. This is going to make us rich. Love you."

 

When Vince exited the car and approached the guys, their anger was stifled by a dumfounded fascination with Vince’s appearance. The 6’3 suburban dad was wearing Birkenstocks with brown socks that bunched up around his calves. There were holes on the toes of the socks where his uncut toenails gasped for air. His khaki cargo shorts ended just before his knees, for some reason scabbed with dried blood. They were especially confused by his top. Why would he wear a canary yellow Hawaiian shirt to a drug deal? Was it an ill-fated attempt to blend in or was this his idea of a vacation? One sleeve was rolled up to flaunt a tattoo on his bicep, a magic eight ball floating above a banner that read, “bad luck.” He approached the two with a soft smile – featuring round teeth that did not look like they would be permanent residents. He was already missing his bottom three, giving him the uncanny likeness of a hippo. 

 

“Hey there fellas, traffic was a bitch,” Vince chuckled, but a twinge of worry cracked deep in his throat. 

 

“We are not playing. You’ve been a loyal customer over the years so we cut you a break and gave you a shot. But we aren’t the live and let live type. You screw with us again and we’ll come after you.” “Fabio’s” jaw was clenched so tightly he ran a real risk of developing lockjaw halfway through his threat. 

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I was looking out for you guys. That cop was really tailing me. Trust me, I got it ‘Fabio.’” he said with air quotes. You see, “Fabio” was merely a cover name. 

 

“Fabio” rolled his eyes and commanded his buddy, “Giavanni” to grab the stuff. “Giavanni” - another clever cover name. He tossed his bottle to the ground and headed towards the car. The shattering glass made Vince jump, and his leg got sprinkled with the leftover chocolate milk. “Giavanni” yanked a duffle bag from the car and tossed it to Vince, who missed it due to poor depth perception.

 

“We meet back here with the profits in three weeks and we split it 50/50, nice and easy. Have it sold by then or you don’t wanna know what.” The split would be more like 80/20. But they weren’t going to tell Vince that.

  

“I got you. Easy peasy.” Vince said with a thumbs-up held by his face and another wide hippo smile. 

 

“Fabio” and “Giavanni” rolled their eyes and got back in the parked BMW. Before they pulled out of the parking lot, they stopped next to Vince. The blacked-out window rolled down halfway and “Fabio” left Vince with a final warning.

 

“We’re watching you man. Don’t forget that.”

 

Vince stood, duffel bag in hand, waving enthusiastically to the BMW as it swerved onto the road. Vince tossed the bag into the backseat of his car and went on his way. Part one of the mission completed successfully. He imagined himself arriving home. Busting through the door to his adoring family and thrusting their salvation, the bag of drugs, into the air. 

 

Vince rode into the Sunset – the Motel off route 6. He would hunker down here for the night and complete his journey Monday morning. The woman at the front desk wore lipstick that bled into deep creases around her mouth. Her skin reminded Vince of the tan leather couch from his childhood home. Vince snatched the room key she dangled between her red acrylics. His room was 70’s inspired decor, wood paneling, bright orange shag carpets, and an array of dusty trinkets. Vince stowed the bag in the closet and stretched out on the creaking mattress.  

 

Now, some might say spending the night alone with a bag of drugs is not a great idea for an addict, but Vince had it under control. For the sake of his family, he could do it. And he would have if it weren’t for that damn malevolent force. It poked him awake just when he was about to doze off, it forced his gaze to the closet and tapped on the door. It forced his hand. 

 

The force made Vince do away with a good portion of the stash that night. His thoughts went to the guy’s threats. He wondered if this counted as a screw-up. He had a rotten feeling that it did. But, Vince hadn’t depleted the entire stash. He could still sell what was left and fudge the numbers enough to convince those guys any missing inventory was a screw up on their end. He just needed to get back to Nevada as soon as possible. 

 

The moment the sun peeked through the crocheted curtains, Vince checked out and got on the road. His Mustang jolted and wailed under the weight of his heavy foot – taking off down a vacant back road. He swerved past boulders the color of passion and hell. He passed sights people drove hours to merely glimpse, but his speed made them appear as mere streaks of red. The Mustang was clocking in at over 100 mph. Vince didn’t notice. He was on edge. He turned to grab one of his cigarettes to even him out. When he looked up, cigarette between his lips, a creature blocked his way. A nine-banded armadillo. A less frazzled Vince might have kept on track and blamed the creature for being in his way. But at this moment, he swerved. I am not sure how familiar you are with cars but if a car is going 100 mph then suddenly swerves to miss a nine-banded armadillo, the chances of crashing are exponential. And that he did. 

 

Here we are, back where we started. If you’ll remember, we left our protagonist passed out next to his crumpled car. Remember? The car is lodged into a hill, smoking relentlessly (takes after its owner). Vince is passed out on a cactus. Okay well, in reality, this quiet scene only lasted a few minutes. Vince came to and peeled himself off the cactus. Considering everything, he was fine. Vince, not the cactus. The cactus was definitely dead. Once Vince got his bearings and realized what had happened, he sobered up real quick. He ignored his creaking bones and loafed towards the car to retrieve the duffle bag. After about five steps, the steed emitted its final cry and exploded. Vince had forgotten about the jugs of siphoned gas he kept in his trunk. Besides slightly singed eyebrows, Vince was fine. Again. The explosion was not that big – just big enough that there was certainly no salvaging his precious cargo. That’s life for you. 

 

With “Giavanni” and “Fabio’s” threats ringing in his ears, he did what any hero would. Well, any smart hero – ran and hid. He wandered a while until he found a Long John Silvers. He sat in a back booth across from a family celebrating their kid making the A/B honor roll. He stared at the family – until it got creepy – thinking about Pattsy and George. There was a time when the thought of a family dinner at Long John Silvers would have thoroughly depressed him. But now, all he wanted was for his loving wife and son to be there with him. He was terrified, he didn’t have a plan, and he always had a plan. He needed Pattsy to comfort and console him, he needed her so badly he could practically smell her – she smelt a bit like fried fish. He held onto this faux-nautical safe haven for a couple of hours until an employee’s pubescent voice cracked over a speaker, usually used to call order numbers. 

           

         “Call for a Mr. Vince. Call for a Mr. Vine.”

 

Vince considered ignoring the call, running out of the restaurant, and searching for a Dairy Queen to hide in. But something told him there was no point, besides, maybe he could talk his way out of it. He had done it before. 

 

         “Hello,” Vince nearly whispered with fear muffling his voice. 

 

         “Hello, Vince.” “Fabios” voice hissed sinisterly through the phone.

 

         “Who is this?” Vince was stalling. 

 

          "Don’t act dumb, you know exactly who this is. We told you, we’re watching. And we’re not liking what we’re seeing.                Where is our shit?” “Fabio” was nearly growling.

 

Vince was simultaneously terrified and amazed by the man’s seeming omnipotence. If only he were better with technology, he would have realized they were tracking his phone. All it took for his great escape to work was turning off his location. But he wasn’t, and he hadn’t.

 

         “It better be safe and ready to sell. And from what we're seeing. It’s not. This is just a courtesy call to let you know, we are holding you                              personally responsible for every cent.” “Fabio” barked through the phone.

 

Vince’s heart dropped at that last remark, responsibility tended to be something Vince avoided at all costs. 

 

         “I don’t have it. Uh, Patricia. Patrica Bradford in Las Vegas. The suburbs. She came up here and I handed it off. She should have it all. It’s safe with            her but that’s who has your stuff.” Vince’s voice quivered under the pressure and he said the first name that came to his mind. 

 

The line went dead. 

 

Vince hadn’t even realized the name he said until after he said it. But don’t worry, he wasn’t going to let them touch her. He had a plan. And this one was going to work, he could feel it.