Cathy and Mike

The desert isn’t what it always seems. The everlasting heat can drive people to visions or lunacy. The eternal wind can blind or confuse the most hardened citizen of that place.

The sign at the entrance to the little town said, "Mojave, where the past meets the future." Of course, it could have said, Mojave, nothing here, and lots of it." It would not have been true though, even if most visitors believed it. Old Mojave desert saying, "Welcome to Ft. Irwin. It’s not the middle of nowhere, but you can see it from here."

Mike lived in the desert, in that too small of a town, out on one of the desert’s many empty lake beds. It was all he knew, and he loved the desert. He would have told you it was a place of magic and beauty, if you ever asked him, and if he thought a bit about the reply he would give you from his heart.

It was night in the wide Searles valley. the star field overhead wheeled its silent constellations in bright witness. Young Mike Stafford traveled the road he had always traveled across this valley since he had learned to drive. It was the only highway there was, the only line between point A and point B. He knew every turnoff, every part of this, his home. His thoughts were about being home, to a good home cooked meal his mom would have waiting. He was not thinking about the road at all.

Yeah, he had wanderlust to go other places, and see other sights, what young man wouldn’t? But if he left, then his mother would be alone. He never spoke of that, nor did she, but that small thing was enough, barely enough of a reason, to keep him driving up and down this valley highway, and almost nowhere else.

He had just spent his last dime on an old Ford, a restored Mustang with new paint, trading in his faithful old truck for next to nothing. He knew it was not all that great of a car, but he liked its looks. It’s old six cylinder engine sounded trucky, in spite of fairly new glass pack mufflers. The only non-restored equipment on his shiny yellow car was a CD player built into a cheap new Kenwood radio. The previous owner had made a cut in the dash to mount the oversized unit, but it looked at home where it was, in the place of its unworking original pushbutton radio with its two large knobs. Mike was glad to have his music to listen to out here in the emptiness, after all.

"Ventura highway, in the summer sun -" he sang the words to the CD as he cruised down his highway, half dreaming of some never seen California coast, and a life he probably would never experience for himself. The sun was an hour past setting. He grinned as he thought how surprised his mom would be when she saw this car he bought.

People who live in the desert valley tended to get stuck here. The always get some working kind of a job, doing swamp coolers, roofing, construction, or transmission and engine work for their living. Those kinds of practical jobs always were needed out here. Being a writer, or an artist, - or a musician had no future at all out here in the desert.

Guess you could say that Mike’s life was already forecast for him, and he wasn’t even aware of it. All he could see was the road before him, wanting for some reason to get to the other side of the valley, just to get home for the evening, anxious to be someplace he was wanted.