a work in progress
The edge of the deathly flat plain.
That's where the book said we were. It was deathly. It was flat. It was a plain. But, I never saw any edge. We didn't cross a river, climb a ridge or skirt a shore. When I stood on the running-board, I got a clear, over-the-top view of everything. Or I should say, nothing. When I looked off in any direction, every direction, it felt as if there were too many directions. But, no matter how many extra directions there might be, there was never anything to see. That's why I kept looking. I couldn't get a sense of direction.
We struggled on into Hagerman. We felt like we were smuggling, or at least we should be because this would be an excellent place to not get caught.
A string beany, developmentally arrested skeletal frame lanked our way on the dominoed sidewalk. His head hung straight down. The feebly forced constantly spitted spit dropped listlessly. There was no arc, no dynamics, just pure boredom manifested in liquid form. I thought maybe this cretin was spitting as a passive aggressive gesture suggesting he didn't live here 'cause he wanted to see out-of-towners in his local grocery. I quickly decided that it didn't matter. If I was him I'd spit too. Better than doing nothing.
The few other people around treated him as they treated us, which is to say, indifferently. We went a couple blocks further into what had at one time been neighborhoods. They were now vacant lots with lines and wrinkles suggesting where driveways, foundations, swing sets and lives had once prospered. A man and a boy approached in a slow tilted little truck and stopped to chat us up. He was wondering about our Rocketbox and asked of it inquiringly. Our black Toyota with the Colorado tags stood out well enough on its own. But the Rocketbox gave us the added element of looking like visitors from some far away galaxy, some advanced life-form just arriving and bringing all their stuff too. Maybe we were from Roswell. It's not that far away. And nobody really knows what happened to those aliens.
But, truth be known, we were just humans like the man and the boy. We were here because Bridget's Dad was born here. And her Grandfather had been the doctor way back when. We told the man this. He pointed out an old grey house standing alone. It was just begging to be torn down. He informed us that the woman that lived there might have known him and would we like to go meet her. We passed on this opportunity and probably shouldn't have. We were about to push on further into the deathly flat plain and see if we could make Vaughn today.
Bridget's Grandfather had owned land in Vaughn and there was some uncertainty as to if the property was still in the family or not. We didn't have an address or anything. So, we just wandered around the abandoned train station and I took a few photos in the fading light. We snuck around in a couple old derelict storefronts. This was the kind of place where there was still furniture and other household accoutrement inside. Years later Bridget would buy me a book with photos of the abandoned Great Plains and some of these very buidings were in it. We saw no one in Vaughn.
That's where the book said we were. It was deathly. It was flat. It was a plain. But, I never saw any edge. We didn't cross a river, climb a ridge or skirt a shore. When I stood on the running-board, I got a clear, over-the-top view of everything. Or I should say, nothing. When I looked off in any direction, every direction, it felt as if there were too many directions. But, no matter how many extra directions there might be, there was never anything to see. That's why I kept looking. I couldn't get a sense of direction.
We struggled on into Hagerman. We felt like we were smuggling, or at least we should be because this would be an excellent place to not get caught.
A string beany, developmentally arrested skeletal frame lanked our way on the dominoed sidewalk. His head hung straight down. The feebly forced constantly spitted spit dropped listlessly. There was no arc, no dynamics, just pure boredom manifested in liquid form. I thought maybe this cretin was spitting as a passive aggressive gesture suggesting he didn't live here 'cause he wanted to see out-of-towners in his local grocery. I quickly decided that it didn't matter. If I was him I'd spit too. Better than doing nothing.
The few other people around treated him as they treated us, which is to say, indifferently. We went a couple blocks further into what had at one time been neighborhoods. They were now vacant lots with lines and wrinkles suggesting where driveways, foundations, swing sets and lives had once prospered. A man and a boy approached in a slow tilted little truck and stopped to chat us up. He was wondering about our Rocketbox and asked of it inquiringly. Our black Toyota with the Colorado tags stood out well enough on its own. But the Rocketbox gave us the added element of looking like visitors from some far away galaxy, some advanced life-form just arriving and bringing all their stuff too. Maybe we were from Roswell. It's not that far away. And nobody really knows what happened to those aliens.
But, truth be known, we were just humans like the man and the boy. We were here because Bridget's Dad was born here. And her Grandfather had been the doctor way back when. We told the man this. He pointed out an old grey house standing alone. It was just begging to be torn down. He informed us that the woman that lived there might have known him and would we like to go meet her. We passed on this opportunity and probably shouldn't have. We were about to push on further into the deathly flat plain and see if we could make Vaughn today.
Bridget's Grandfather had owned land in Vaughn and there was some uncertainty as to if the property was still in the family or not. We didn't have an address or anything. So, we just wandered around the abandoned train station and I took a few photos in the fading light. We snuck around in a couple old derelict storefronts. This was the kind of place where there was still furniture and other household accoutrement inside. Years later Bridget would buy me a book with photos of the abandoned Great Plains and some of these very buidings were in it. We saw no one in Vaughn.
posted by Steve-O at 5:51 PM
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