Fields of Gold

He often uses the desert as an escape from his otherwise busy life. He gazes onto the horizon as he drives, focusing inward and finding peace while taking in the view of the endless dust bowl.

But the look in his eyes is one of exhaustion. Maybe he has been gone for too long, taking a trip with no end in mind. Maybe he finds the idea of rest tiresome; simply an obstacle in his journey onward.

Perhaps, of course, he doesn't find the desert as appealing as I do. Likely just a traveler on his way home or on his way to his real destination, he probably found himself in a small town only for gas and to relieve himself. Chances are he doesn't even want to be here. He looks around wearily as he puts money on the pump. As it runs, he stretches his legs, then his back, twisting side to side, examining his surroundings.

I often like to imagine backstories for those who visit my gas station. They don't have to be realistic. But they help pass the time on my shift. The station's owner doesn't even care that I spend most of my time daydreaming. It's not like anyone comes here for the amazing customer service or my glowing food recommendations (although, I'll always push for the pizza over the burritos). They come for the restroom and the gas. They come in and buy a few snacks. Maybe they'll spend some time outside. After all, we are the only town with a gas station for miles along the interstate, if they don't fill up and rest now, they won't get the chance for at least an hour or two.

When the pump is full, my mystery man leaves. I take a quick look into the car and see a woman in the passenger's seat and one small child in the back seat. It's a family trip, and judging by their tired expressions, they are probably on the way home after a vacation. I wonder where they went. Maybe the Grand Canyon? That's always the most popular one. I'd like to think they were a little more creative, but the man seemed like the type to know little of the southwest, other than the Grand Canyon being here.

"Could I get $50 on pump three?" a voice says.

I look up and see a man a little older than I am. Maybe two years? His hair is short and was clearly cut very recently. Maybe even cut today. There's a man who cuts everyone's hair in town, but this man doesn't seem to be from here, I have never seen him. And I doubt he knows the barber. His beard is a little unkept, but still short. And his eyes are bright and sharp, way too sharp for someone who has been driving hours through the desert.

"Uh... yeah," I say. "Pump three? Of course! That's, uh... fifty."

He laughs and puts his card in.

"So, do you like living here? In the middle of nowhere?" he asks.

"I've been here all my life," I say.

"But do you like it? I mean, where do you go for fun? Or even for groceries?" he asks with a genuine curiosity.

"I like talking to new people. A lot of people stop here," I say. "And, uh... I like to watch videos on my phone for fun, mostly. And I go for walks. There's a recreation center in town."

"Really?" he asks. "I didn't see much."

"It's hidden."

"Ah," he laughs.

He seems focused. I imagine he got his hair cut on the road. He probably stopped in a small town to immerse himself in the culture of desert living. As he grabbed a drink from a bar, he mentioned needing his hair cut. It was getting too long to tame and he's been on the road for a couple weeks now. Maybe he's been living out of his van, touring the desert, finding the most magnificent canyons and mountains and caves.

Yeah, his eyes look like they've seen the most beautiful things the southwest has to offer. Oceans of ponderosa pine and fields of golden dust and bronze hills. For hours, he would drive, no destination in mind, his blue-green eyes scanning the landscape for a dirt road looking interesting enough to lead to his next adventure. They would fix on a plateau on the horizon and with a determined look on his face, he'd turn up the radio and speed toward it with nothing but the view on top on his mind.

"What's your name?" I ask him.

"Zhane," he says.

Zhane probably sped on the interstate, aware of no police being around for miles and the only ones watching likely being travelers and residents of a nearby town with no name.

As the wind picked up, dust covered the landscape, painting it with a sepia tint. Zhane probably smiled, his journey suddenly getting more interesting. He turns up the radio some more, presses the button to recycle his van's air, and turns the air to cool. He slides past a few cars on his way, his eyes still scanning the landscape for a way up the plateau.

When he finds it, he slows down and pulls to the side of the interstate, stopping briefly to map out his path. He doesn't pull out his phone. He finds life more interesting when you carve your own path, and finds it more exciting when that path turns into something completely unexpected. A dirt road nearby seems to lead to nowhere, with fencing on either side of it, but the fence only lasts a few feet before disappearing. Clearly, this used to be someone's property. Maybe it still is. But no one's seen to the fence for a while. So, Zhane presses on, starting out slow before speeding up, his eyes on the top of the plateau.

On the way, as the bronze dust clears, he finds rocks as red as blood that lead him to a gorge in the landscape. It's as if a god has carved through the land with a large knife, revealing what was once a stream. Now, it is a deep canyon with the rocks scarred by the water that had once run through. The patterns on the rock swirl in organized chaos, each one seeming to glow a vibrant red in the sun's light, and all Zhane can think is how Vincent Van Gogh might have painted a desert scene.

After a moment of appreciation, he presses on, coming to a point where the van he calls home can no longer make it. The way up the plateau is steep and he knows he can only make it to the top on foot. He climbs out, clipping a water bottle to his belt loop, and he treks up the large formation. He hopes against all hope that he can make it to the top, knowing there is no clear path up, and that when he comes down, he will have to be even more creative. As he climbs, his sharp mind carves a path. His eyes dart to every rock and crevice where he might be able to grab ahold to hoist himself up. His arms hold him steady. His legs carry him up.

The trek lasts longer than he anticipated, but he doesn't mind. He had no plans, other than to find a spot to spend his day. He takes short breaks when he finds a gradual incline, and after a while, he makes it to the top.

The landscape is transformed. In front of him is a completely new, flat desert, filled mostly with rock. This one has less life than the one below. But it is surrounded by the world below. He stands at the edge. In front of him is an infinite horizon. On the edge are more plateaus and mountains. The end of the interstate. The end of everything. And an orange sun resting after its longest day yet.

Before the end lies endless fields of gold. He feels a persistent loneliness as he shares his adventure only with the landscape that has been his companion thus far. He looks at the cars below and longs to be among the families in them. He longs for companionship and for the cool air of civilization. Humans were not meant for the desert. But he looks to the resiliency of the life here with respect. He feels the burning breeze with every inch of his body and hears the howl of the wind as the golden dust swirls around him. For a moment, he feels peace. He feels alone. He feels longing. He feels small. But he also feels brave. And adventurous. He feels the beauty of everything around him and feels a connection with life, and an appreciation for nothingness. For a moment, he feels everything.

His long hair whips his face as the wind picks up, slapping his eye and blinding him for a minute. In that moment, he decides to get his hair cut in the next town he stops in.

The machine beeps.

"Well, you have a good day!" he says as he pulls his card out of the machine and starts to put it into his wallet.

"You too..." I say slowly.

He walks out and makes his way to pump three. I stay at the counter and gaze out the window. He begins pumping gas into his sedan.

Beyond him, I look up at the interstate, and through the tunnel underneath, I stare longingly to the world beyond.