Friday, October 8, 2010

Moonland, Chicken

By Zach W. Watson

A moon rock wedged itself between the tent floor and the square of my back while Marta lay naked beside me.  I kissed her with my sour breath and she kissed back, regardless of the stench, which didn't surprise me since I woke up every morning with shit breath and every morning she kissed me back.  I emerged from the tent with baggy sleepless eyes.  A desolate moonscape, devoid of life, appeared with the straining sun and a sleeping bus.  The dunes of sand rolled in the distance, sharp and dull rocks alike plained for as far as one could see, a shambled house of cinderblocks sat directly behind us, and all that emerged in the distance was a still, metal building full.  It looked like a place where nuclear waste would be disposed, and no one would be any of the wiser.

The night before Marta and I were in the process of beginning a session of love, when out of the still of a quiet desert night, we heard an engine and rubber rolling over the rocky road, and lights shone into our tent while horns honked and red lights flashed.  We quickly dressed and left the tent. 

The police greeted us with a smile and asked what we were doing there.  The three cops stood surrounding their police truck.  One cop stood behind the open passenger door, keeping one foot on the floor of the car, the other on the ground, while two hands in the car periodically cocked a pistol.

They told us camping there was highly dangerous and advised us to camp in town. The girls said that we camp all the time in places where there was no one around, so we didn't think it would be any sort of problem.  They said no one around equalled possible problems of safety.  I thought the cocked weapon in the Peruvian's hands was a possible problem of safety.

The truth finally came out when the little security guard from the corporate chicken farm, whose land we were squatting on, emerged from the darkness with an old radio around his neck.  He didn't know who we were, and with it being private property, he called the police because he was scared of us squatters.  After we were granted permission to sleep from the security guard, we were off to sleep and the cops left. 

Before the cops left they said, "If any thing bad happens, the chicken farm is over there."  The chicken farm was at least two miles away.

The wind blew the tent for hours and continued when the rain started and I scambled to put the rain-fly on my tent as Marta laid in the tent so it didn't blow away. 

"Alex, it's raining."  I said to their red tent.

"Why is it fucking raining in the desert?" Alex said.

After the rain died, Alex slept, occasionally walking around with his flashlight, with worry that the knife people that the police warned us about would arrive and slash us to pieces.  I wasn't so much worried about knife people as I was in-bred, nuclear wastoid-cannibals hell-bent on eating our faces and Matthias' parasitic rotten innards.

After emerging from my tent in the morning, Marta and I took it down.  The gypsies were ready for an early departure.  We hopped in, Alex turned the key, and nothing happened.  We were on the surface of the moon with what seemed to be a dead battery.

"Let's go."  I said as we mobilized and walked to the chicken farm to ask for jumper cables.  When we arrived, we discovered that there was no automobile, no jumper cables, only a few dirty Peruvian chicken farmers in jumpsuits who suggested we pushed the bus and pop the clutch to start the car.  They walked back with us.  The gypsies and three chicken farmers planted our feet and pushed.  Vrrrrrrrrrooooooooommmm.  It started and Alex drove off as the farmers admired the Gringo's driving skills.

We left the moon, on our bus, not a spaceship, headed high instead of low, to the high Andes, to Huaraz, to the high glaciated peaks and to say good-bye to Marta.

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