Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

"It's not so bad."

"We couldn't have done much worse."

"It's got four wheels," I said. "There's an engine."

"You sure about that?"

I turned the music up even louder, drowning him out. There were vicious guitars and a female singer spreading rumors about a man who'd broken her heart and blackened her eve and disappeared without a single word.

"Are you okay?" little-Rhonda veiled.

"I'm fine."

Before we'd left, I'd run upstairs and given old lady Rhonda the keys to my apartment, and an invitation to come down to my place any time she felt like it, told her to swig cheap vodka and eat all the cheese sandwiches she could handle, that I had to go to Phoenix for a couple days, but please, enjoy the couch and TV, feel free to crash at my place if he's had too much to drink and seems mean, and I'd be back soon to watch "Wheel of Fortune" with her every night.

There hadn't been time before we'd left to change my clothes, so there were bits of food and dumpster-snot all over me, which I wouldn't have even noticed, but the next thing I knew, little-Rhonda snatched something off my shirt and said, "Yum. Chicken!" and he stuffed it in his mouth like we were gorillas and he was eating tics from my fur.

Later, a snake slithered up and sat on little-Rhonda's shoulder. It purred. Just seeing the sidewinder reminded me of being bitten. Of the feeling of betrayal as the fangs broke my skin and spilled their poison. The crushing feeling of betrayal when someone you trusted opened its mouth and bared its brutal teeth.

"Why'd that sidewinder bite me?" I asked.

"Tough love," he said.

As the sun came up and we were somewhere in the Central Valley, a crop-duster flew over the fraying heads of corn stalks. The plane dropped low, right over the corn, and released a yellowy film. I stopped watching the road, couldn't take my eyes off the crop-duster. I didn't know how long it was until I looked back at the road, and I wouldn't have cared if the highway curved and the Neon ended up in a ditch, all smashed up. That was how perfect it was, watching the plane scribble the sky with a jaundiced dust that drifted down to the corn, like toxic confetti.

We drove into Phoenix, trying to find our way back home. The entire desert had been obliterated. Paved. Developed. There weren't even cacti, especially the huge Saguaros that I used to see everywhere, lining the roads anymore. All cut down, all murdered.

I didn't recognize any landmarks, but I remembered all the major streets. I knew we stayed on Shea Boulevard, and the tiny neighborhood I used to live in would be on the right-hand side.

My good hand jumped to microwave-popcorn-mode, kernels colliding.

Little-Rhonda and I sped through mid-day traffic.

"What's going to happen?" little-Rhonda said.

I tried to say something confident, so he knew I'd take care of this, and that there was nothing to worry about. "After it's burned, we'll roast marshmallows in its ashes."

"We don't even like marshmallows," he said.

"That's not the point."

"When was the last time you even had a marshmallow?"

"They're metaphorical marshmallows."

"What's the metaphor?"

"Shut up," I said.

I wondered what would happen if there were people in the house when I got there. Hopefully the house would be empty. Kids at school. Parents at work. All I'd have to do is break a window and climb in and walk around the house with a book of matches, lighting curtains, carpet, clothes. I'd stand there as the fire really started cooking, stand there to make sure that it wouldn't be saved by eager firefighters, I'd search the garage for flammable chemicals, cleaning products, whatever I could find to seduce the blaze into bulging, bloating flames slipping into the house's frame, burning the insulation in the attic, burning the walls that kept Letch's secrets, and I won't let it happen again. I'd flip the gas knobs on the stove to high, drench the coats in the hall closet in hairspray before holding a match to their sleeves. The smell of dying trees. Glass exploding. I'd smile and cough and stagger and watch the house crumble, its support beams withering to sticks and caving in from the weight, wood crashing to the flaming carpet, the house dying: there would never be another atrocity within these walls, the sinister way the walls concealed all that malice.

But what if there were people in the house? What if the mom didn't work or the dad didn't work or the kids were home, swarms of chicken pox pocking their skin? What if they sat in front of the TV, the kids slurping homemade soup, trying not to scratch the pox, don't scratch, if v ou do, they'll never heal, they'll just scar, you don't want to spend the rest of your lives walking around covered in scars, do you?

I'd have to find a peaceful way to lure them out of the house. Because I was not there to hurt anyone. Just the opposite. I was there to protect people.

I'd tell them I work for the city of Phoenix and that there was a gas leak on the block and that they needed to vacate the premises immediately, for their own protection. I'd smile and tell them there isn't anything to worry about, and I'd lead them to the street before I ran inside and lit everything on fire that would catch. Then I'd run out front and try to console them as they watched the spirits of their worldly possessions take off to the sky in billowy shapes, the cremains scattering in an Arizona wind. I'd console them, give them a shoulder to cry on. I'd say, "I know what it's like to lose everything."

Little-Rhonda and I should be there any minute.

The name of our street was El Pasado.

That was the name of the street where the house was.

Our house was actually the first one on El Pasado.

Our house was immediately on the left-hand side.

The address was 7876.

Our house used to be light brown.

It might still be light brown.

But another family might have painted it a different color.

That family may have little kids, and they were the reason I was doing this. The house used to have black pebbles in the front yard.

It used to be my job to rake those pebbles.

Letch used to water the pebbles.

I never knew why he watered the pebbles.

What would water do for pebbles?

El Pasado could be any of the next few blocks.

I drove a little slower.

I braked before each possible turn.

I squinted to read the street signs.

I didn't slow down at the next intersection, though, because a huge shopping center took up the whole side of the street. The sprawling store was painted orange. It was a huge Home Depot. I shook my head in disgust because of its hulking ugliness, and as we passed the street sign, little-Rhonda said, "That was it," and I said, "What?" and he said, "You missed it."

I looked over at the shopping center as we sped by. "Missed what?"

"El Pasado."

"It couldn't be."

"That was it."

"Are you sure?" I asked and moved the car across the three lanes of traffic so I could do a U-turn and find out if littleRhonda was right. He hadn't steered me in the wrong direction yet, and if he was right, my worst fear was confirmed: our little house didn't have a backyard anymore, no access to the desert, but sat there dwarfed in Home Depot's orange shadow.