This isn't completely done, but heres half.
Joaquin pulls the warring rope and the bell of La Cienega Gasolina rings. He opens the screened door, and rests his arms on the counter, tracing his fingers along the dust of the cracking wood. A man swings through the doors that stand behind the counter, with his flannel shirt that sits above his stomach, and cigarette that lay on top of his ear. He looks upon Joaquin, and slaps his calloused hands on the counter.
“What can I get for ya?”
“Pack of Marlboro Reds.”
The man grabs a new pack from below and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his knife. He lifts his head, looking at Joaquin and then slowly slides the knife across the fresh plastic, he pulls out the pack and Joaquin reaches for it.
“That’ll be four dollars,” he pulls the pack back.
Joaquin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of crumpled bills, fingering each apart and then handing them to the man. He nods his head, and then wobbles back through the doors. Joaquin walks out, and leans against the wall where the bell sits. He looks down and notices an old pruned man that sits on the ground next to him, and turns his head; opening his pack, and turning one cigarette upside-down.
The match pulls along the grainy paper and lights the cigarette that hangs from his mouth, and he sucks in the cool smoke.
“Hey,” the old man’s rusty voice cracks.
Joaquin looks down, breathing out the smoke.
“Cigarette?” Asks the old man.
He hands him one.
“Light?”
He tosses him the matches, and the old man lights his cigarette, resting his head on the wall. “How old are you boy? You look too young to be on your own.”
“Old enough,” Joaquin flicks the ashes off his cigarette. “Do you know which way Quetero is?”
“Quetero? Why would you want to go there?”
“Which way?”
“Right. There should be a sign somewhere along the road.”
Joaquin lifts his bag and leaves La Cienega Gasolina.
***
The vultures circle Joaquin. Following him down the road, moving in and out of the falling sun. He listens to their slow flaps and caws; and watches the mirages grow smaller down the road. Thin, broken trees surround him, moving to the winds howl. Their leaves and branches, fossilized in the dirt that he trails his footsteps upon.
A storm of dirt moves along the road. Joaquin looks back and listens to the roar of the engine that approaches him. The car slows and its black windows come down. A woman with dark sunglasses sits in the car and Joaquin places his hands on the windows opening. She smiles, and takes her sunglasses off. He takes his hands off, and continues walking along the road. The car approaches him again.
“I’ll give you a ride to wherever you want to go, just talk to me.”
He stops and holds still, pacing his mind back and fourth. He looks into the open window, “Quetero,” and opens the door. She speeds off, leaving her tires deeply engraved in the dirt. With one hand on the wheel, she moves her hand through his hair and he moves closer toward the door, taking her hand off. Looking out the window he reads, “Quetero 120 Miles,” on a sign that passes.
“Do you have any water?” He asks.
She quickly reached her arm over to the backseat and grabs a bottle. He opens it and lets the cool liquid move through him, clearing his throat.
“How did you find me?”
“Someone told me you were heading this way back at that gas station.”
Rolling his eyes, he takes another sip of water.
“I want you to come back.”
Swallowing the water, he looks out of the dirt-covered window, and moves his finger across a button unlocking the doors.
“What are you doing?”
“I can walk from here.”
The car quickly stops as she presses her foot against the break. He opens the door and turns his head.
“Adios, Madeline.”
She turns her head and places her hands on the wheel, he closes the door and the car speeds off, leaving his face tanned with its flying dirt. He takes his sleeve and wipes the dirt out of his eyes, and continues to walk along the road.
***
“Ibarra,” Joaquin looks at the sign, and then looks at the empty town pressing his cigarette into the road.
“Damn.”
The town’s lanterns guide his path as he walks through. They hang on their mudded walls that are layered with straw and rock. He brushes his shoes against the dirt, sliding them along the harsh ground. Above his head, a painted sign reads “Cantina,” and he walks through the doorway. The floors creak under his boots, and the town’s men lean back their chairs looking at him. Squinting their eyes, they take a deep drag of their cigarettes, blowing out the smoke as he walks by. They cloud the air, and the candle’s flame grows faint. He walks to the other side of the room and sits in a booth, letting the leather cool his skin. A waitress with a white blouse tucked into striped skirt walks up to him. She moves her hands pretending to poor a drink into a cup, and then looks at him.
“Quiero agua, por favor,” he says.
“Lo siento, un momento.”
Across from him, a girl with long black hair pinned with a flower laughs. He looks at her.
“Their not used seeing someone like you around here,” she says.
“I can tell.”
“Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento,” says the waitress while handing him his water.
“Está bien,” he takes a long sip, and wipes the water from the cup onto his jeans. Lifting his head, his eyes match with the girl who sits across from him.
“Joaquin Vazquez.”
“Liana Espinoza.”
