The girl that worked inside the Shell, her hair pulled back tight against her scalp, wetted down cholo-style, selling Marlboro cigarettes. She was listening to Led Zeppelin.
The sign that hung on a piece of rope over the road that said “Days of the Old West Rodeo; June 19, 20, 21” Van’s Motel, across the street from the high school. The three girls that were cruising Johnson Boulevard after sneaking out of the slumber party.
The three ranchers that had skipped work for the morning. They had ballcaps on - the kind that have plastic mesh and the attachable resize-cords on the back. They talked about Holstein cattle for our entire breakfast.
Reno at night.
The old lady in the casino that told me her son won $40,100 on that same machine the year before.
The old red car that was rusting in the back yard, under the poplar. It had yellow flames painted on the side. Behind the yellow flames was painted a big “27” and the words “HIT MAN.” The front end was smashed from some dumb bastard running into a tree with it.
The open, infinite desert. The little rows of trees. The fresh water. The cold mountains. The pines.