Back To Basics

"This is going to be the death of me", I thought as I filled the pot with bottled water. I didn’t have a sink in my apartment, and even if I did, I wasn’t sure I trusted the landlord or the city enough to drink either of their water. The small red light on the hot plate glared at me from the fold-out counter as I contemplated how I had never known anything other than life in the city. The honking horns, flashing neon lights, and endless crowds were my nightly companions. There was no escaping the noise of the city.

I worked as an IT consultant, a job that had me navigating a maze of digital codes and corporate labyrinths, always tethered to my phone and within arm’s reach of my computer and an internet connection. My world revolved around algorithms and deadlines, and I couldn't remember the last time I had seen a sunrise in person or felt the earth beneath my feet. Even the courtyard of my apartment was pavement and cheap, plastic astroturf. Not that it mattered. Time not spent working was time spent chastising myself for not working. The job paid well though. Or it would have, if rent in the city didn’t wipe out most of my paycheck.

I grimaced as I waited for the water to finish boiling so I could fix myself some instant noodles. A cascade of drywall from the ceiling floated down into the water as my upstairs neighbor dropped something. I fish the larger pieces out. I couldn't afford to throw away the water. At least I didn’t have downstairs neighbors. Small blessings, even if it did mean that the windows had bars on them.

As I reached for a bowl, I pretended not to notice the cockroach sneaking its way across the pantry. Life was complicated enough. No point waging war against a species that would survive nuclear fallout. If anything, it was easier to just leave well enough alone. I gave the bowl a quick wash before dishing up the noodles and broth. At least it was hot. The white powder melted and dissolved easily, bringing out a roasted, nutty flavor in the noodles. It was surprisingly good and the warmth spreading through my body as I ate reminded me of childhood days spent with my grandmother. I blinked away the thoughts.

My days had a way of blending together, marked by little more than the turning over of a digital calendar, and I found myself remarking at the irony of it being my birthday. It had been years since the occasion had been marked by anybody not trying to sell me something. As these thoughts crossed my mind, my phone buzzed, no doubt to taunt me with another “Happy Birthday!” discount. To no surprise, it was a number I didn’t recognize. I clicked the notification with a tactile “kthkt”, silently cursing my need to keep a zero inbox. I should be above such compulsions. I made a mental note to myself to work on that.

The text was from my father, who had abruptly retired to the edge of the desert over a decade ago. The message simply read, "Come visit and find what ur missing." Surprised by his invitation, I texted him back asking what he meant. He simply gave me an address, and said I’d see when I got here. The cryptic nature of the texts were only enhanced by my father’s poor spelling. I touched my forehead as somebody outside shouted at an ex-lover for forgiveness. The joys of life. By the sounds of things, the boyfriend’s new girlfriend was about to scratch somebody's eyes out. I’m not sure the neighbors would do much to stop her, given the racket.

My thoughts returned to my father's texts. What the hell did I have to lose? A job that barely paid to keep a roof over my head and cheap ramen cooked with an electric tea kettle? I resolved to take a trip and set about the simple task of packing my things. Perhaps reconnecting with my roots would do my soul some good. I crammed a few changes of clothes in a backpack. My toothbrush. I kept it simple. I didn’t know how long I was going to be visiting, but packing light would give me an excuse to leave if the situation became too weird. Outside my bedroom window, Sketti Freddi was urinating on a nearby lamppost, flooding my window with the smell.

“Hey! Not in somebody’s window,” I shouted and blared the air horn I stashed nearby for such occasions. Freddi jumped, pulling up his pants without bothering to stop. Sometimes Freddi needed a reminder that other people existed, and I suppose he served as a reminder to me that I need to get the hell out of here sooner rather than later. Gun shots rang out nearby to underscore the point.

Apparently ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend didn’t come to play. Sirens sound off in the distance, drawing nearer. I smiled. Perhaps somebody would look in the window and finally see me.

They don’t. I watched their feet through glassy eyes as the surveyed the crime scene. Oh well. I had other places to be.

~

My truck belched and lurched beneath me. The old beast complained mightily, but I had never really deemed it worth replacing. Driving in the city was more trouble than it was worth, though force of habit and a desire for independence ensured I paid the exorbitant parking fee all the same. I turned up the volume as “Black Me Out” came on the radio, the blaring chorus erasing all thoughts I may have had of city problems. I was officially on vacation.

The road extended before and behind me, helping me shed the skin of urban chaos and decay that had gripped me. By the time the fields of corn gave way to more arid conditions, I began to feel a sense of calm and replenishment. I was born anew. If nothing else, the long drive gave me time to reflect about what I might say to my father. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade.

"This is it," I thought. I wasn't sure what my next steps were going to be or what I would do when I got there. I didn't have a plan. I didn't have an agenda. All I had was me. I suppose I should consider myself lucky. Lots of people didn't even have that, although it was a small comfort. My foot maintained a steady pressure upon the pedal.

It was easy enough to find my dad’s, despite the distance. I drove straight until the gently rolling hills gave way to a small town. The low, white buildings had flat roofs. A few had once been painted vibrantly, but those colors had faded long ago beneath the unrelenting sun. These days, you could barely tell they were there. Many once-murals now looked like little more than dust and mud caked onto random flat surfaces. The effect was unappealing, but I was led to understood that the community wasn’t always right on the edge of the desert. It once held a thriving hippie community. Now it held my dad and Hank, his dog. I never understood why he chose to live alone in this deserted place. I wasn’t even sure anybody other than me knew he was there.

Pulling up to the center of town, the truck gave one final shudder and stalled out. The gauge read “E”. Out of gas. I sighed loudly as I grabbed my backpack. My dad’s place was just ahead anyway, and it’s not like there was anybody around to inconvenience if I just left the truck there for now. I’ll come back later with some gasoline. Hopefully enough to get back home.

The walk went quickly. The low, squat buildings began to look the same and I wasn’t really looking that closely at them anyway. My father’s place was just ahead. I could explore later.

My father's trailer was an oasis of sorts, nestled among the dunes. Its exterior, weathered by years of exposure to the harsh desert elements, was a faded shade of beige, hinting at a once-brighter past. The trailer's metallic surface bore the scars of time, with patches of rust and peeling paint, but it stood proudly against the backdrop of the arid landscape. Despite the greenery, the trailer somehow looked right at home amongst the dunes of the desert. Harmonious in its defiance against the colonial sands.

A small, rickety wooden porch extended from the front door, displaying signs of multiple repairs and improvements over the years. It served as a welcoming entrance to the trailer. Potted plants that seemed to defy the unforgiving desert conditions adorned the stoop.

The tranquility and solitude were overwhelming. He had somehow built himself a small, but thriving, garden. Somehow, stepping foot into his home felt like being transported to a tropical paradise. The effect was surreal. My father welcomed me with a quick grunt and nodded in my direction as he went about the business of moving a potted plant from one side of the yard to the other. The abuses of the sun had done his wrinkled visage no favor. His long beard was secured with a hair tie and thrown over his shoulder, keeping it out of the way. He was covered in dust and sweat, struggling with the weight of the pots. He gestured to a row of waiting pots, and I set about the task of helping him. I didn’t have much else to do, and it felt good to do something physical for a change. Before too long, the row of pots was lined up along the opposite wall.

A scorpion scurried underneath the porch as Hank pointed it out with a yelp. In his excitement, he knocked over several of the plants. My father simply smiled, an expression that touched his eyes in a way that I had never seen before. Hank trotted over and put his head in my father’s lap. My father’s hands slid easily through Hank’s thick fur before returning to his work.

My father grabbed a nearby stool, gaining some height to take down one of his shades and drenching his yard with abrasive daylight. I noticed an enormous hole had somehow developed in the tough cloth. My father laid out his tools and began the task of repairing the fabric while I waited. I kept him company while keeping an eye on his old dog, Hank. My dad's long hair fell in front of his face as he hunched over the sail, providing a curtain that kept out the worst of the sun.

The temperature in the yard without the shade began to rise noticeably. As the sun quickly began to fill the yard, I noticed that there was a plant in every small pool of shade while my father worked in the sun. Laid out with a delicate precision, he had taken into account each plant’s height and needs to keep the plants from burning. It was difficult to say how long the task would have taken my father alone. There were a lot of plants. I got up to get him a beer. I noticed the scent of jasmine and lilacs.

My father’s deft hands, which had previously sewn up the cuts and bruises of a rambunctious youth, had slowed and his hands were weakened by arthritis. His work as I watched him repair the sail was still impeccable however, even if the patch was plain in form, function, and fabric. My father had always said that the fundamentals were more useful than most people realize. I suppose he still believed that.

In time, my father motioned for help rehanging the sail. Then he went inside to make us some lunch, leaving me to my thoughts. He emerged shortly with a tray of sandwiches and iced tea.

We passed the afternoon playing chess and sipping on tea as we waited for the cooler evening hours to take hold before beginning the laborious process of moving the more delicate plants back to their original locations. Surprisingly, I won half the games and it was impossible to tell if it was due to relative difference in skill or age. Or perhaps both, the vigor of youth closing the distance on the experience of age. Either way, it was a marked improvement on my part and a win was a win. I lit the cigar my dad offered in celebration, the smell of leather and heady tobacco filling my nostrils. Hank chewed on a nearby license plate. I'm not sure where he got it, but he seemed to be steadily making his way through it as the metal crunched between his jaws.

I laughed suddenly at the thought, causing my dad to give me a questioning look. I couldn’t help it. Had I been back in the city, I probably would have been using the air horn against Sketti Freddi right now as I stewed on some tech problem or other. Despite the physical labor and the heat, I began to understand why my dad sought out the desert. There was nothing to do, and nobody to tell you how to do it.

Off in the distance, I heard the distinct sound of my truck being started before trailing off. So much for getting back easily. I’d have to find somebody to come pick me up. It wasn’t until just then that I had no idea how my father had managed to text me from this deep in a dead zone. I made a note to check with him in the morning and see if there was a solution to my little problem. Perhaps he even knew who stole my truck.

~

My father simply offered me a smile when I asked him for advice on getting back home and handed me a set of keys. He has a motorcycle that he’s never used. I’m welcome to take it, if I want.

~

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars began to emerge, my father and I sat in what had quickly become a comfortably shared nightly silence. The soft hum of a generator faded into the background, powering the gently flickering incandescent lights under which my father and I drank warm beers.

Beyond the dunes, colors danced in the night sky. “Aurora Boring Alice”. My mind floated back to my childhood for the first time in a decade at the sight of the lights in the sky. I had come so far and gone nowhere. The swaths of light playing amongst the stars filled me with a sense of awe as if I were seeing it for the first time. I wasn’t sure when I had made the decision, but I knew then and there that “home” now had a different meaning. I couldn’t go back to my apartment. I didn’t even want my stuff anymore. The breeze picked up slightly. I closed my eyes and drank in the scents of my father’s garden against the backdrop of hot sand. If heaven were a place on Earth, it would smell like that.

Somewhat abruptly, the thought that I hadn’t thought about work in over a month bubbled up. My clients must be furious with me for ignoring their emails and phone calls. I briefly wonder if Sketti Freddi had noticed that he was now allowed to piss in peace. The thought brought a wry smile to my face as I shared a knowing look with my father. The desert had a way of making words unnecessary; its quiet power resonating with everything it touched. My father and I were the same, it turns out. Phantoms in a world destined to turn to desert and sucking sands beneath our feet. The desert drank me in. Hank let out a solitary, unanswered howl as my father whispers, “I’m so proud of you.” I scatter in the breeze and take my place.

Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.