Water Read online

  His father turned up the volume, the sound of a melodic, female voice rose sharply. “The paranoia faced by most Americans may be upon us,” she began ominously.

  James sat on the edge of the seat next to his father.

  The newswoman was blonde, icy blue eyes seeming to watch through the screen. “For years, environmentalists, conspiracy buffs, and socialists have been preaching the impact of human occupation on the planet. And now, they may have been right to fear.”

  The son sat back farther, though not reclining. He allowed himself to sink into the cushions as she continued. Dark black letters spelled out WATER DOOM at the bottom of the screen.

  “What is this?” James asked.

  He had not heard anything about a water-related disaster.

  Had it been a terrorist attack perhaps?

  His father pointed at the screen as the woman continued. “The body of Miguel Hernandez, found lying at the center of the US-Mexico border, has increased worries about the groundwater of Mexico, and as well the water in the southwest United States. We go to our correspondent at the border for more.”

  The screen shifted to a younger man, his brown hair parted at the side. He was the consummate frat boy turned career man. Touching his ear, his voice cleared. “Thank you, Nancy. I am Felipe Munoz, reporting here at the border. We have been following this tragedy since it hit the news waves. Hernandez was found lying on the northbound lane into the United States early this morning. Witnesses saw him stagger out of the desert. He was seen walking through town hours before, mumbling and accosting people.”

  James was drawn in, his attention slipping from his day to what was before him. “What happened to him? What does this have to do with water?”

  His father shushed him, waving his hand toward the television. Munoz continued, gesturing behind him to the backed-up cars and border patrol officers in sunglasses who walked about. “As you can see, this has not thwarted pressure and traffic here at the border. But, it has sparked some conversations about the future of Mexico and immigration here into the United States. Back to you, Nancy.”

  The studio returned along with Nancy’s grim smile.

  “For those of you just joining us, there has been a health scare at the border. A man was found near the border, dehydrated. Initial toxicology reports have revealed a battery of contaminants associated with Mexico’s long-standing water issues. This is the first time that such toxins were reported this far north, or have been this deadly. We go to a senior correspondent who is live with a CDC official, speaking in an official capacity on the nature of this water scare.”

  James was positively intrigued now.

  The CDC official was obvious as they shifted to yet another room. Unprepared for the camera and perpetually scowling, the aptly named Dr. Boring––clearly not meant as a literal interpretation––addressed the camera, not the interviewer. “We have not classified this situation as an event or instance of great worry. There is no need to be concerned with groundwater here in the United States, or to talk about rationing of water reserves.”

  James shook his head. “Why even mention it if there isn’t a concern? I doubt there were many people thinking that rationing water was a consequence of this. Idiot.”

  The interviewer looked pensive as the good doctor remained impassive, finally cutting away from him and back to the blonde once more. “Well as you can see, at the moment the death of Hernandez is not posing any immediate effects on American water supplies. But, there are those concerned that a migration of water contamination this far north can only be indicative of a further migration here into American soil.”

  Robert clicked the remote, changing the channel to something else. Commercials for local businesses cycled endlessly, poor sound and camera work ignored.

  “A water scare, what a bunch of nonsense. There is no way water on such a large level could be compromised. Pure nonsense, humans don’t make that large of an impact. This is more environmental scare tactics. They just don’t want to deal with the immigration issues in this country, putting a sad face on our friends to the south.”

  He looked at his father in disbelief.

  “You couldn’t possibly mean that. Micro fractures in a plane of glass can break it over time. Groundwater is a fluid, living thing. There is a very real possibility of migration into a great portion of the country’s supply. There are real repercussions, real dangers.”

  Robert waved him away, turning the television up once more as images flickered to life once again. “Complete nonsense, the news had some guy on before who said all of these environmentalists are wacko. Rocks and minerals break down; consistency of water changes over time. There is no human impact.”

  James opened his mouth to say more, but instead simply shook his head. He knew this line of conversation. There was little he could do to dissuade his father. The lure of media deception was such that it created a dichotomy of both trusting the station you believe is right and finding falsehood in all other sources.

  It was the sin of pride.

  “I got work in the morning,” he mumbled, surrendering the conversation. His father continued, nonplussed by his son’s disagreement. Often, James felt as if his father chose not to hear his disagreement.

  Instead, he heard what he wished––or nothing at all.

  “Long day in the salt mines? Are you going to be home for dinner?”

  His father––the conundrum––shifted gears from one plotline to the next with such rapid proficiency that James thought he was entering the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He had no regrets about staying with his father; it was the right thing to do. For many years after James had moved out in his youth and sampled the world, his younger brother had stayed with his parents, watching over them.

  Now, it was his turn––his turn to be responsible.

  “Course, you want me to bring something home?”

  Robert shook his head, eyes focused on the television. “I’ll make us some stir fry. I got those red peppers left over and that elk meat your buddy brought down when he was here.”

  “Brian?”

  His father looked confused. “The little one, always talking big. Flying planes. Selling cars, all that?”

  James nodded. “Brian.”

  “Either way, that meat and I have some vegetables. I’ll have it ready. You want me to get some ice cream?”

  This was one of those moments where James could not deny the possibility of a degenerating memory. He had told his father on multiple occasions that dairy did not agree him. Yet, time and again, his father found solace in asking about ice cream. It was a nostalgic question: something shared and loved in youth.

  “Nah, pop. No ice cream. You want me to get you some?”

  His father shrugged, putting on his thrift-store reading glasses and picking up a tattered magazine at the corner table next to his recliner.

  “Nope, just thought you wanted some.”

  If James allowed it, the discourse of ice cream acquisition would have lasted all night. But he did not, at least not this night. “All right, pop. I will see you tomorrow. I am jamming out early, so I will see you in the afternoon, or at dinnertime.”

  He turned and moved down the darkened hallway.

  Robert called out the time for dinner after him, but it had been the same time since he was six. His room was as it had been during his childhood. There was little reason to change. This was supposed to be a period of transition in his life, moving from searching for a purpose to living with a purpose.

  It had not been that simple.

  Flicking the light switch on, it revealed what would have been found in an adolescent’s room. Star Wars and Michael Jordan adorned the walls. The bed was a single, white sheets and two unevenly distributed pillows sat haphazardly at the base board. The dresser was covered in various collectibles: from Gizmo to the Enterprise E. There was little about the room that had changed, except the wardrobe in the closet and the monumental reduction of physical porn lying ab
out.

  Shutting the light off as quickly as he had turned it on, he made his way toward his bed. He kicked off his shoes as he plopped down, looking at the stars on his ceiling. It was something that had been reassuring in his youth. He threw his shirt to the side and unbuttoned his pants, but did not take them off.

  A boring life had left him without energy.

  He was not tired per se, but worn down.

  As he stayed there, James could not help but think of his mother. In her years on this earth, she had been nothing but kind, giving. Worked until the day she did not wake from her quiet sleep. Too short was her existence, a life felt by many when she passed––friends and family alike. He had inherited her thick hair and olive skin. His blue eyes and temper was evidence of his father. The logic of his mind and desire to find purpose was something all his own. Though he had a feeling every person felt as if their purpose was special, their journey unique. Rolling onto his side, he looked out the clear glass of his window.

  Night eyes watched him.

  Sitting down, its muzzle shut tightly.

  The coyote watched James carefully from a distance. His room looked down the long pebble driveway of his father’s home.

  This night was different.

  The coyote was bold.

  Its gray coat and deep reservoirs of eyes felt to James as if it were looking through him. He wondered if coyotes felt loneliness when their pack fell apart, when an elder was killed in traffic or shot by poachers. Did this coyote dream of a life unlike his own? James pulled one of the pillows under his head and watched the coyote long into the night.

  Tuesday

  H

  is phone vibrated as it slowly ventured toward the edge of his nightstand. Shaking and spinning, it was a ballet of electronic futility. James had left it behind; it wasn’t even an afterthought as he neared the valley of sand and heat that he had passed through only the night before. There were two reasons to live in the desert: sunsets and sunrises.

  This particular morning was no exception.

  The valley was formed of a crimson pastel rock that from a distance looked like the mountains at the entrance to some unknown world. But in the morning and just before the wisps of night grab a hold and smother the day, there was an explosion of colors. It was a beautiful cornucopia of blistering and beautiful art.

  The sun crawled just above the sand dunes, flooding the valley in sunshine. The splashing light tumbled across the rock formations, and iridescent stones ignited the walls of the basin.

  This was the part of the day James loved the most.

  This was when his life felt less worthless.

  There was purpose here.

  The sun came into the valley each day to create this beautiful marvel, and each day he was here to witness it. The twisting serpent of the road wove in and out of the majesty of nature, until the paved parking lot of his daily grind came into view.

  A grotesque sign was perched just off the road.

  It read: Our Stuff.

  The door of the jeep creaked as James closed it. He pulled his red vest over his black t-shirt and ran a hand through his short hair.

  The parking lot was mostly empty.

  A beat-up Buick had been parked there since the late 90s and had never moved. By this time, it was a makeshift homeless shelter for local transients. It was an important component of his duties for the day, driving off the homeless when they panhandled in front of the store.

  Silence permeated the morning––a rare treat James relished in the early mornings. She walked in from the other side of the parking lot. A blue Honda with a dented door and missing hubcaps was parked some distance away. She was his dream girl, of a sort. She was married to––or had been, it was a strange situation to be sure––a local drunk and abuser.

  Light brown hair to her chin: It was often combed over one eye, mirroring a childhood memory. There was too much eye shadow to hide indiscretions, long shirts to hide bruises.

  She was a broken doll.

  “Hey Violet,” James mumbled as he got closer, chancing an awkward wave.

  She rarely looked up and when she did, all he was struck by was the wide eyes that looked at him in gratitude for recognizing her existence. This day, she smiled weakly. Dimples in her cheeks deepened as he got closer.

  “Hello, James,” she whispered back, her voice small.

  He felt protective of her.

  As he neared, he smiled widely, invitingly.

  “Did you bring Julie with you today?”

  Julie was her eight-year old daughter who often frequented work with her mother when her father was away on a binge, or more violent than usual. James felt defensive of her as well, much to his detriment.

  She shook her head. Most of the time she wore an over-sized coat with a faux fur lining and hood that was often the barrier of her hidden face.

  “Her father took her today.”

  James nodded absently, as he could not imagine what that man could do with a child. He could barely take care of himself. Too often, he would barrel into the store––half-drunk and yelling––and would have to be dragged out by the police. The automatic doors at the front of the store did not open as they approached.

  Reaching out, James pulled them open and gestured for Violet to go first. She bowed her head, making an already smaller person even more diminutive. The interior of the store was still dark. The echo of the speakers played elevator music, water-downed versions of songs no one wanted to hear. As Violet disappeared into the aisles of the store, James turned and shut the front doors and locked them.

  “See you later,” he spoke, trailing off at the end.

  *

  The morning passed as it often did.

  The sun rose.

  Heat sweltered in the desert and the fringe humanity of Miranda sought air-conditioned shelter. James was a walker, a transient employee who sauntered through the store. Seeking out customers who required help, he sometimes cleaned the bathrooms. Often, he attended to those duties that fell between the cracks of other employees. As the morning gave way to the afternoon, there was a palpable tension in the air.

  Customers were more curt than usual.

  People left angry.

  It was not until James had the distinct pleasure of interacting with a deranged desert degenerate that he began to understand what it was about that day that was enraging people so.

  “Nametag.”

  James did not register the cruel tone at first.

  “Nametag,” he repeated, this time drawing James’ attention. “Nametag, I’m talking to you. Turn around.”

  James turned, his grimace dissipating into an even line.

  It was his best attempt at a smile.

  The man was a caricature of a person. His chin disappeared into his pocked neck and his bulging brown eyes seemed to be of two different sizes. Crooked teeth were revealed as he opened his mouth to speak once more.

  “Hey, what about customer service? C’mon, nametag.”

  “What can I help you with, sir?” muttered James.

  The man’s face twisted into a sneer.

  He was wearing a shirt three sizes too small, his hairy belly exposed from just beneath the dirty white shirt. Putrid breath radiated from the man. It was an odor that could have risen from a trash heap in the Mojave Desert. “Attitude? You giving me attitude now, nametag? Time like this, in a crisis and what not.”

  “I’m sorry that you feel I am being discourteous…”

  The man sneered again. His voice, though masculine, broke as he spoke again. “Using big words on me now, college dropout. You think you’re hot shit, selling commodities to us lower folk.”

  James looked at the man in disbelief, his behavior was deplorable. “Perhaps if you can just calm down, I can help you find whatever it is you are looking for.”

  The man moved in closer, the scent of body odor was overpowering. “You some kind of wise guy? Why do you think I’m here? You retarded? Don’t you listen to the ne
ws? Don’t you know what’s going on?”

  James looked at him, bewildered.

  “Sir, I…”

  “Water,” the man spoke clearly. “Water, I need water.”

  “Bottled water? Is this about the Hernandez thing? The border?” queried James, making a connection slowly, though uncertainly. “Are they peddling hysteria already?”

  “Hysteria, boy, you must be living under a rock. It’s coming. That border thing’s old news. Poison is in Texas now, parts of New Mexico. They’re talking about rationing and sanctions on tap water. You believe that shit?”

  James looked around the store. “I really don’t.”

  It had evaded him previously.

  The scampering populace of Miranda bustled about the store, arms full of plastic water bottles and greater containers. One woman had another by the hair, dragging her away from the last water bottles on the shelf. People screamed at each other, pointing accusing fingers, claiming water as their own.

  “It would appear you aren’t the only one looking,” replied James, as he pointed to the pandemonium. “Best of luck to you.”

  The man glowered at him as he passed by, but James could not believe his eyes. Lines were backed up, people nearly climbing over each other to get water and carry it away in the heat of the day, to survive.

  He stalked over to the throng of people who had begun to congregate around the empty shelves. As he approached, the masses turned as one. Their bleary eyes and angry words were upon him before he could even speak.

  “Where is the water?” one cried.

  “Is there more?” queried an elderly woman shakily.

  “What do we do?” screamed another.

  James held up his hands, trying to calm them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, but they continued to bicker. Each voice rose above the others. Some shoved those smaller than themselves, like a rabid mob. He raised his voice. Some mumbles remained, but most had directed their attention at him. “Let’s all calm down for a moment. I will go in the back and see what we have.”

  He moved away from them, not giving them time to object or grow ever angrier. The store was packed. Never in his eighteen months there had he seen such a rush on the store. He wondered what it was he had missed to which everyone else was reacting so intensely. Pushing open the double doors that led into the warehouse, James sighed.