in the desert

california's high desert is empty.
real empty.
aside from the I-15, the desert just fills up the eye.
mostly dry brush, rocks and used shotgun shells.
sometimes a bullet filled computer monitor or tire sits on the ground.
a mojave rattler beneath.
the bones of a little lost sheep bleaching in the sun.
maybe a desert tortoise.
its bright and clear and never stops.

i like that.

been going since i was fifteen.
with guns.
strange how my life has revolved around the firearm.
hell, i was paid to shoot machine-guns.
big ones.
nasty sonsofbitches.

weapons those pabst blue ribbon-swilling-gun-nut-commandos would spooge their pants for.

dripping wet in front of their nazi memorabilia and cache of ammunition.

and stacks of 'barely legal' porn mags.

yet at the time, i didn't absorb the entirety of my job.

0331-machine-gunner.
nope.

it wasn't a job.

-it was my life.
it wasn't a gun.
-it was 'claire;' 50 caliber browning machine-gun.
i can't find many pictures of her. or me for that matter.

i wasn't fond of the lens back then.

but last weekend i went to the desert again.

halfway between victorville and barstow.

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105 degrees.
we wandered for a bit. but it was hot.

we shot some guns. not many, but some. and we ate sandwiches in the sun and didn't talk too much, just ate.

i like that.

think i'll go back.

alone.

just bring my pistol and some agua and maybe a camera.
my gun and i.

in the desert.

1911 45 acp.

don't really want to kill anything. i'm done with that, i think.
the kill.
it'll be a hot motherfucker.

up between victorville and barstow.

sweat dripping down my face.

salty.
a stifling heat.
everything just curvy and wavy in the distance.

all the animals burrowed deep.
some cars shimmering off in the distance.
i could die there, i think.
out there in california high desert.
alone.
with the heat.
dry brush and shot gun shells and tortoises.

content.

a story.
it went a little like this:
the 1980s.
this guy; a Vietnam Veteran.
successful.
intelligent.
boss type. with the italian suits and penguin ties and florsheim kicks.
once a year he would disappear. i guess being the boss or whatnot, he could do such a thing.
so he vanished for a week or so.
nobody knew where he went.

AWOL.

a week.

he went back to the south pacific.

the 'Nam.
to the jungle.
the dark green bush.
and he would live outside for those few days.
off the land.
hunt.
fish.
a decompression of sorts.

obviously he had PTSD.
and this excursion into the bush was his therapy.
his group hug.

his kumbaya.
his paxil.

and the week would end and he would come back and spit-shine his florsheim's and button his italian suit.

and be the boss again.

i like that.