As I enter into the one-horse town of Bronco at 4pm, two pickup trucks, abandoned, rusted, and torn apart, sit on the state line. A single flower stands alone in front of the barbed wire fence. Time change from Mountain to Central in this border town between Texas and New Mexico. There is my lost hour.
In Plains, Texas, I stop to rest and put on my rain gear, the clouds darkening as they move in my direction. Across the street, behind flat-roofed buildings, a ferris wheel spins. I cannot see people. I cannot hear noise. A carnival? I saw no signs on the drive into town. Unusual.
Later in Brownfield, outside the closed public library, two kids on a bicycle ride by, one on the handlebars. They look at me strangely. Who am I?
After I finish my cigarette, I get back on the road and head south toward Lamesa. Crosswinds. Headwinds. Downwinds. Everything but tailwinds. The rain comes lightly and doesn’t stay for long. A gin mill stands in field by itself.
9pm. LaMesa. A line at the drive-in theater. Pickup trucks. Cars parked inside. On the outskirts of town, I pass by the Welcome Inn, the apparent refuge for forbidden loves. The lot is full.
The town is behind me. It is that time of the evening when the world sits between being too flat and too abundantly alive; life lies somewhere between the second and third dimension. The trees are too still. The landscape is too stretched. My eyes play tricks on me.
Darkness consumes the sky and I still have over one-hundred miles to go. I am driving well into the night.
Twenty six point nine
One hundred. Twenty-eight miles.
Lights.
Car. Is he passing? Does he see me?
Rearview mirror. He’s passing.
Everything was brown at the inn. Everything was dark.
Ten-sixths.
Three-fifths.
The hills roll. How far is that car behind me? One point two on the tachometer. How long before he passes? He’s at least a kilometer behind. No. Point seven.
Another car. Definitely farther away. Nearly two kilometers before he passes.
Point seven.
Sterling City. I’ll rest in Sterling city.
Three-fifths. Six miles. What is eight? Four. Six repeating. Add a dot.
What is that? Pinpricks of red lights, flashing in the distance. Tens. Hundreds. Is that a runway? That can’t be a runway. What are those bright white lights in the middle?
Seven point nine. What the hell am I supposed to do with seven point nine?
Blackness, except for the light from the scooter in front of me. Red light flash. Off again. There’s a tower. Red light on bottom, slow blinking light on top. How far is that? Ten more kilometers and they are no closer than before.
Can’t be a runway. What are those white lights? Is this a city? The tower is closer. Forty-eight point nine. Ten over six. Six is ten. Twelve is twenty. Three is five. What do I need to calculate the distance between bottom light and the blinking light on top. Speed. How far is it off of the road? Another eighteen wheeler.
Stop in the middle of the night. Side of the road. Nothing. The light strapped around my forehead shows bushes off of the road. An occasional car passes by, I listen to the sound of the wheels on the road. Cigarette. Water. Food. My mind returns to the lights forever away still.
Are those lights over that entire city? Flashing still in the distance. Can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Fifty-two point three. Closer. Thirty miles to town.
