Sanderlings
With three toes they scurry up the sand to avoid the coming wave. They follow in stride as the water recedes, scampering after it, plunging their deep, black beaks under the sand. In the intertidal zone sand crabs hide just beneath the surface, prizes waiting to be found.
No. 152
contact
Ahead of me on the highway the sedan began losing its tire. The rubber wore away from use and the metal rim scraped against the asphalt. Orange and yellow sparks erupted from the contact. I pressed on the gas and moved around the car, wondering if they’d make the destination before they lost it.
No. 160
Punctuality
I gave the host my boss’s name and sat at a table with five place settings, feeling rare to be the first to arrive, and right on time. The diner had few customers, and the two waiters ambled from one to another, refilling coffee mugs, taking payments on the mobile receiver. Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, and I ordered a meal, checking my email, my Slack—no messages. The waiter came over with the plate of food, saying he sees the reservation was dated for tomorrow.
No. 159
Answer
Half the stores in the mall were empty. Lone workers stood behind the counters, using their personal devices. The other stalls sat empty, abandoned, closed. Voices echoed from the food court on the bottom floor. Down a hallway, a forgotten payphone, never decommissioned, began to ring.
No. 157
Garden
Outside the elementary school the class of 2023 planted a garden. The plaque commemorating this noted the students’ fundraising to purchase southwest flora, plants that were built to survive the climate.
Walking past it now, the flower beds are dusty and brown, the plants within them withered and parched. One succulent has grown large, and the rest look ready to blow away in the next gust of wind.
No. 156
Crash
The truck stopped at a diagonal in the intersection, skid marks still steaming behind it. The engine gave a gasp, then fell silent. The rear bike wheel had become separated from the frame and lay dented beneath a front tire. The rider sprawled across the concrete. One car drove past the truck, then another, then another. The owner of the gas station on the corner stepped outside and then turned and went back in.
No. 155
Recollection
One in the morning. Up with a drink. Stuck late working, blank template staring back. The event the event. To have lived it then dissect it. The ditch the pipe the collapse the body the legs the screaming the call the race the lever the ropes the hand the lift the water the drag the tourniquet the relief. Another sip and it’ll come back, it’ll come together.
No. 154
Thermal Misalignment
Extreme heat threatens the 10-year-old tracks. Steel expands and bulges out, damages the surrounding concrete, misaligns the rails. A water truck runs along either track, spraying gallons of water to cool the hot metal. As transit riders wait in the shade and watch the road transition from dark to light as the water evaporates.
No. 153
Control
The man sitting across from me had just gotten back from North Carolina, and already he needed to go again. He never flew, instead choosing to drive cross-country, spend the time. He held his backpack tight against his body, and his legs shifted beneath him seeking a comfortable position. The driver departed the bus to use the bathroom. The man looked around and asked if this was how it always went.
No. 152
Discoloration
Outside the elevators it caught my eye. A large mark spread across the floor in uneven curves and a splatter pattern. The fallen drink—whatever it was—had left the tile several shades whiter; it made me think of bleach, and the way my mother would pour it on our uniforms to remove the discoloration of everyday wear. But the black collar could not avoid it, and turned red and orange in uneven shades. The instructor pulled me aside one day and said my mother really oughtn’t use bleach; it’s ruined; and I need to buy another.
No. 151
Night Swim
The lifeguard closed the door to the hut, then latched it with the salt-rusted padlock. As he stepped on the wooden planks down to the cooling sand, he heard a brief scream that bounced off the surface of the water, half-muffled by the waves. Turning his head toward the horizon, he saw a family near the pier, bobbing in the water. Then a second scream.
He unlocked the hut, and used the radio to call in a possible distress situation. He flicked off his flip-flops, then raced down the sand toward the people. As he approached, a lifeguard UTV came racing towards him. Together they ran into the darkening water to pull the family of four out of the surf. The sun depressed beneath the horizon, orange flickers disappearing from the waves as the family coughed up saltwater.
No. 150
Early
The liquor store wouldn’t open for three hours. Up all night, he’d rather stay awake, ride the buzz, wait to allow himself to slip further into disinhibition. When he got home from the bar (last call), he needed another, but the ice box was empty. Poured them out a week ago as a fresh start. So he walked to the liquor store two blocks away, iron gate pulled in front of the glass doors, unlit Open sign taunting him.
Across the street a pair of mariachis, one carrying a violin, the other a bass guitar, rounded the corner and entered a coffee shop. He wondered if they, too, had been up all night, or if they carried any bottles of liquor to spill into the fresh coffee. His eyes refocused on a lamp post in front of the shop. Scrawled across it in charcoal was the phrase “Life is constant extortion.” He sighed and wondered how much time had passed.
No. 149
Exit
A group of partygoers approached us on the sidewalk, laughter and chatter filling the air. The casual warmth and guileless ease of drunkenness emanated from them. We skirted their path and circled around the grassy lawn with fallen palm fronds. Around the corner, moonlight illuminated a row of hedges high in the air. At its base, one of their friends stood, legs apart, relieving himself at the base of the fence line. He shivered, then pulled up his pants, dropped a can of beer, and raced down the sidewalk calling after them.
No. 148
Lot
The lot sloped up from the road, grasses and weeds growing between rocks lodged into the side of the mountain. Above it on either side stilt houses stood, accessible from a higher road. A faded for sale sign hung on the metal fence around the property. One of the ropes had frayed with the desert wind and broke off, so the sign rested at a slant. The remaining rope held taut, its strands bulging against each other with the force of gravity.
Upon the sign were two prices written in red ink, then scribbled over in black. A third, lower than the rest, was forced onto the edge, circled twice, and noted “final final price.”
No. 147
“Tow Me”
Abandoned car collects dust and tickets. Tail in the red the traffic cop noticed it, finally, after months of sitting idle. Nettles caked into the dirt. Around them passersby scrawled phrases, always from the car’s point-of-view, as if in its decay each felt moved to speak for it.
No. 146
Recycler
The man with the limp and his wife pulled their car along the curb, left it running, hazards on. Shuffling along he dragged a burlap sack behind him, its contents clinking against the bumps in the road. Flipping the tops up, he bent into the blue bins, digging around the plastic and cardboard, grabbing the glass and aluminum. Passing the material into his sack, the late sun reflected off a tin can and flashed into my eyes.
No. 145
Meeting
After the meeting two men waited in the lobby. There was much to say, and the air conditioning provided a respite. Outside the window the air shimmered; the asphalt itself seemed to steam. Another man entered the lobby, and with him a breath of arid desert air followed. This new man recognized one of the two, and asked, “Are you Greg?” The first shook his head. “No, but you’re Robert.”
No. 144
Flowers
Spencer stopped for flowers on his way to work. At the time he found this sensible; he had to go straight to the second date from his office, and, knowing rush hour, would feel pressured for time to stop after. As he pulled into the parking lot a realization hit him, and his stomach flipped upside down—he could not bear to bring the flowers into the office and set them on his desk. To field questions from his coworkers filled him with dread so that his cheeks turned red in anticipated embarrassment. No, he thought it better to leave them in his car.
There they sat baking in the heat. When he handed them to Jacqueline at the table, the petals had begun to wilt, and there were too few of them, having fallen off and littered the mats. He blushed when handing them to her and avoided her eyes, looking instead at the grey sidewalk. “I’m glad to see you again,” he said.
No. 143
Replacement
An apartment building in the neighborhood hired plumbers to redo the pipes. They came through and bisected the front lawn, then bisected the sections. From these narrow trenches they dug out the old, rusting pipes. As they pulled them out, the metal fractured under their touch. Metal flakes fell into the grass and became lost. The workers lined the old pipes along the side of the road. At the end of the day, job half-finished, they stuck metal spikes along the perimeter, then wrapped caution tape around each spike. The workers cut plastic water bottles in half and placed them like severed heads. As my dog walked past the upturned yard, he pleaded with his eyes to run in the dirt and dig the holes deeper.
No. 142