Desert Dreams
I was riding home from class, on my bike, one night with the high from my nightly joint still thick on my breath and my eyes. It was such a pleasant ride. Cool, breezy, dry, and oh-so-beautifully cloudless. Nights like that are special in the valley. To me, at least. It’s a respite.
I take a long drag off my cigarette, pressing my lips together hard against the filter. I blow it out quickly and downward, toward my boots. I shift legs and look up at you, blowing your smoke out sideways, looking at me with your brows raised. You shift too, your shoulders high and look at me without blinking for what seems like days.
“From what?” You ask.
I respond, impatiently, after a quick sigh, “The inane daily bullshit that can build up and wreak havoc on a day just like every other day. Hot, sunny, dry, dusty, itchy, sweaty, moving from air-conditioned room to air-conditioned room to air-conditioned car.” It’s not really each of these extremes, of course. But one or two every day, and it gets tiresome, and I get tired easily. You looked at me for ten seconds more, then you flicked your cigarette, shoved your hands in your pockets and went inside.
This wasn’t how our nightly smokes used to go. We used to climb up to the roof and you’d light a cigarette and tell me a funny story while I took a few hits from an old pipe. Tonight I’m already stoned and I’m smoking from your pack.
It’s hot. Sure, it’s really hot. But, we managed. We managed because we had to. I know that’s what you’re thinking. The same way we managed with no money for almost a year without going hungry. I close my eyes and drink the city in through my pores.
“Mientras que una vive, lucha.” I say it under my breath. I’m high and you’re pissed. It makes me so impatient. Even now, when the desert is just a memory and I can feel the city in my sleep, I still get irritated. The heat rises in me; I never realized I had so much heat when we lived in Phoenix. It was just dwarfed in comparison. Here in San Francisco, it’s more apparent. It slowly dissipates and when I see you back in the house, I can tell you’ve forgiven me and given me the chance to forgive you. It’s no biggie, we know. None of it was important, and now we just don’t want to be mad at one another.
You’re going wild on your guitar, with that quiet wildness you have. I just give you a sweet smile and you nod between notes, in time to the tune you’re rattling off. When you’ve had enough, you put the guitar down and smile at me sweetly. You pat the bed next to you and I sit. We just lean against each other, like that, side by side.
It’s my battle, and for me, it will never be finished. I thought it would be finished as soon as I left Arizona, and on to another battle. I know now that some battles just don’t end.
Anyway, I rode on home. I was light and thinking about writing this all down, creating some magic fitting to my mood. That didn’t go as planned, but I’ll write the story I was thinking of anyway.
Josh and I had just shared this joint. It was the same shit I had at home, but it always tastes better when you’re not alone. Josh was good people. He is, that is. He is good people. He is a good person, that is. We were talking about his kid and about class and weed. We had a nice exchange and I rode home, thinking we should definitely go to the Science Center.
That was when “the beauty” happened. Nights alone, riding my bike through downtown, feeling full of life and positive light. Actually enjoying the craziness that is the Valley of the Sun. It’s full of light that just never escapes, like it’s trapped here, drawn to the magnetism of campus and all those bodies moving around. Buildings reincarnated yearly, but always occupying the same air. Heavy, heavy, heavy. But, when you’re fresh from a 3 hour lecture and you get your bike legs, it’s just light.
I thought about our teacher and how she made me feel like I was in the company of someone who was slightly drunker than I was (which happened to be stone-cold sober). She laughed more than I did and got more excited than I got. It was sometimes awkward and wholly enjoyable. Informative, too. People who enjoy their jobs that much know their shit. I want to be one of those people, and when I’ve got the desert at night to myself, I totally am.
