The Understory

Fiction from the Desert Vol. 2

He reached the parking lot just before midnight, with the sound of traffic still humming in his ears and vibrating in the bones of his feet. The temperature was down to a simmer–-a mere 90 degrees in the darkness–while the city lights glowed like coals on the desert hills.

He never should’ve walked on the freeway, in dark clothes, with his back toward speeding death. But exhaustion had forced him to take the most direct path. Somehow, he had avoided the stern highway troopers and the teenagers taunting from inside their fancy cars.

He was soaked in sweat, and his clothes were covered in the grit that swirled up from the gutters and sidewalks. Exhausted, he put his blanket down on a park strip, beneath a tall Mesquite tree. Soon, he was curled up and falling asleep.

Early morning brought the sound of car doors in the rising blue light. The Walmart workers were talking and laughing as they arrived. Two tractor trailers idled alongside the building, and a few old folks were talking outside a row of RV’s, having already found camaraderie.

He was stretched out near a pile of clothes he had dumped out of his backpack. He rubbed his eyes and propped up on his elbow, combing his fingers through his shaggy black hair. He straightened his creaky knees, thanking God his belongings hadn’t been stolen overnight. 

“You can’t camp here,” came a voice from behind him. A security officer approached. “I don’t care if you’re packing up. I won’t call the police yet. But don’t plan on staying again.” 

“Oh, I won’t,” the traveler said. “I just got in too late last night. Please don’t call the cops.”

“I’ll wait,” the officer said. “But don’t take advantage of me either. You’re loitering.”

Within an hour, the shoppers had begun to arrive, and someone pulled a big pickup close to him so that the chrome bumper was staring him in the face. He brushed his teeth in the reflection, spitting his toothpaste into the decorative rocks.

“Daddy, I don’t wanna go,” he heard a little girl scream, and he could see her squirming in the seat of a shopping cart.

He leaned against the tree, took a National Geographic out of his backpack, and began reading an article about the wildlife of the Carolinas. Nearby, a gang of grackles plundered beneath the cars with glossy black feathers and cadmium-yellow eyes. They were the Pirates of the parking lot, he thought, as they chattered in tones more fitting for the rainforest.

           

He had five dollars in his pocket, just enough for breakfast. And, while he wasn’t presentable enough to go inside the store, he was emboldened by his hunger. He ignored looks from other shoppers as he approached the McDonald’s counter. “I’ll take a sausage, egg and cheese Mcmuffin.”

“Will that be to go?” the cashier asked expectantly.

“Yes, please,” he said.

Back at his camp, he patted the tree as he ate.  The trunk was the color of dark chocolate, twisting upward, splitting into a thousand tiny limbs. The leaves were thin, allowing filtered sunlight down to the understory. He sat back and watched young families and old couples holding hands and young men with their chins up, locking sports cars. There were large, round people too–waddling along in flip-flops.

He eyed his lean, tanned arms and his tight stomach and strong legs from miles of hard walking. The past year had left him without a home or family and without a job. He was transient by every definition, and now his only occupation was survival, and his only hobby was noticing everything around him. In this way, he kept his mind inoculated against the constant threat of despair.

The branches above had darkened against the brightening sky. He was on his back again, thinking of the twists his life had taken, stemming from a happy beginning–-a healthy trunk that had been thriving before so many divergences and difficulties had come. He had seen so much in 45 years. He had felt pain, both inflicted and self-inflicted. And these experiences were his possessions, just as much as his backpack and socks.

Three weeks earlier, he had rejected the man with the blue pills at the motel, pushing him back by the throat when he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. As uncommon as it was, he still had some pride despite his circumstances.

 “Do you really like sitting there?” came a voice again. The woman was standing next to a clean Toyota 4-Runner, with plastic grocery bags in both hands. He turned just as a grackle scurried out from under her car, racing away on skinny black legs.

“It’s not ideal,,” he answered. “But it works.” 

“Why don’t you go to a park or something?” the woman asked. “Why the Walmart?”

The traveler paused for a moment.

“Well, this is actually a beautiful tree,” he finally said. “The branches twist in all directions, but you can see them best from underneath.” The woman rolled her eyes, but he continued. “It makes me think of all the stories I know, the things I’ve seen–good and bad–and the people I’ve loved.” 

She said nothing but fumbled with her keys before climbing into her car. When she began to back up, someone honked. She jammed her brakes and yelled from inside the glass. The other driver raised a fist and yelled back. For a moment, he thought they would get out and fight.

When they drove away, he went down on his back again, resting his head as best he could on an old tee-shirt. The rocks were still hard beneath him, but now the view looked better than ever.  And while he still didn’t know what was ahead of him in the days and years to come, somehow, he knew it would be beautiful, as long as he kept looking up.