All The Way Down

Chapter 2

I left the quarry parking lot and began the six mile drive back to the highway. The asphalt road cut arrow-straight through the desert just a few miles north of the Mexican border. Rust-colored mountains box the desert in on all sides, and I was headed north towards White Sands, the heart of the San Andres desert.

The land in that part of New Mexico was once a shallow sea with a high concentration of minerals, but all that’s left now is scorched earth. The quarry that my brother worked at outside of Alamogordo runs 24 hours a day, clawing and blasting the minerals loose so they can be trucked away for refining, or smelting, or shipping somewhere. Truck drivers push loads of ore mined from beneath the desert up Interstate 70 to a train yard on the far side of Alamogordo.

I was a couple of miles away from the quarry when one of the ore trucks on its way to the highway filled my rear view mirror. It blasted its air horn and shifted over into the passing lane to get by. I edged onto the shoulder to give the truck some room, but I went a little too far onto the sand and heard the tire make a roaring, grinding sound like a bad wheel bearing makes.

When the truck was past me I tried to steer back onto the road. I could tell I had tire damage from the way the car pulled to the right, so I coasted to a stop with the car parked half on the shoulder and half on the road. The truck dragged a tornado of sand behind it along the road, and I heard the hiss of the sand striking my car. When the hissing stopped I got out into the heat. I could hear the whine of the dump truck shifting through its gears on its way to the highway.

The dry lake surface had shredded the sidewall of my right front tire to a steel-belted rag. I walked around to the trunk to get the spare and saw heat waves shimmering off the paint on my Camaro, making the hills in the distance seem more like a mirage than a mountain range. I wondered how many times Brick had seen that same view. Taking care not to touch the hot trunk lid with my hands, I popped the lid, pulled the spare out, and rested it against the bumper. So far, so good. When I leaned into the trunk to grab the jack, though, it wasn't in there. I tried to remember the last time I had used it, as if that would help. I hadn't gotten any sleep the previous night, and the nine hour drive from Oklahoma didn't help much, either. I tossed the spare back into the trunk and shut the lid with my elbow, considering my options.

If I could hitch a ride in either direction, I would take it. If not, I would have to walk. The access road connected with the interstate about four miles ahead. The quarry was only a couple of miles back, which seemed like a lot better deal for an afternoon hike. There was no wind at all, and it had to be over a hundred degrees. Even with my sunglasses on, the glare was intense. I shielded my eyes and looked back towards the quarry. The corrugated tin buildings that I’d visited with Dean were several stories tall but they were barely visible, their image shimmering in the superheated air.

I noticed a car coming along the road from the quarry, which raised my spirits. I waited for it, and when it was close enough to do me some good, I stood in the middle of my lane and stuck my thumb out. Maybe I wouldn't have to walk after all.

An old blue Impala with paint faded to chalk slowed as it came near. It had a dead sparrow jammed into the grill on the driver's side and the hubcaps were missing. The car stopped and the passenger rolled down his window. He had a broad nut-brown face and shiny black shoulder length hair. He looked at me through dark sunglasses with pink rubber frames.

"Car trouble?" he asked.

"I blew a tire," I said. "I can't fix it."

He nodded. "Want a ride into town?"

"Thanks."

I climbed into the back seat of the Chevy. The interior reeked of beer and cigarettes, but the cloth upholstery was cool to the touch. I shuffled my feet in the empty beer cans to clear a place for my feet. Willie Nelson was on the radio singing "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain."