you."
—Nietzsche
1
ROURKE
Dawn.
The long-suffering town of Two Trees looked like short rows of cardboard boxes, painted pastel and left abandoned on the cruel surface of the high desert. Shiny tinfoil covered many of the spider-webbed windows. Sheet metal, cracked bricks and bleached tiles dangled from the walls and patched, sloping roofs. Meanwhile, the harsh, uncompromising Nevada sun threw down waves of heat like shards of broken glass.
Peter drove over the top of the rise, past the two tall cactus trees and whipped to the side of the highway in a spray of sand. His eyes were burning, his skin felt fried and gritty, but for better or worse he was finally home. He got out of the car and looked at the town; the mounds of rock around it, the mountains, so blue and green, above and beyond it. He tucked his blue work shirt back into his jeans, scuffed his boots on the blacktop. Thought: The prodigal son has returned.
Movement. The long barrel of a shotgun moved slowly through the low dunes like a periscope. The head and shoulders of an old man appeared. He wore blue overalls and a billed railroad cap.
"Good morning, Jake," Rourke said.
The wizened figure jerked, startled, and swung the weapon around. Rourke flinched. "Easy," he laughed. "I didn't come all this way to get shot by a friend."
Jake, squinting in the morning sun, studied the tall, wide shape before him. He placed the familiar voice and lowered his gun.
"Pete Rourke? That you?"
"Was the last time I looked, Jake."
"It's been years, boy! What you been up to?"
"Working my ass off down in good old Hollywood. Figured it was high time I came back."
Jake dug for fresh words, came up empty. "Pete. Hot damn. Well, how the hell are you?"
"Just fine, except I may have to change my shorts now. What are you hunting with that cannon?"
A wide grin creased the old man's features. "Badger, I reckon. Somethin's been gettin' to Candace Stone's chickens of late. She asked me to nose around, since her fella's been so downright useless."
"Fella? I thought she'd be living alone out there forever," Rourke said, walking closer.
"She's with Bert, now. No accountin' for taste."
"You've had twenty and some years to speak up, Jake. You telling me you're jealous?"
"Not a bit of it, you young punk! Course, she sure can cook up a storm, Candace. I'll miss the meals."
"Nail the critter, then," Rourke said. "It's bound to earn you a free supper."
"That's just what I'm doin', Pete. You stop by and see me, hear? Glad you're back."
"Thanks. Glad to be back."
Amazingly, he was; more so each passing moment. He returned to his car and waved. The thin old man wandered off, doggedly scanning the ground for badger tracks. Peter started the engine, humming to himself. He drove down the curving slope into town.
The town seemed to balloon sideways and fill the windshield. At least , he thought, this is one place where nothing ever changes.
The railroad tracks, long unused, still crossed from east to west like stitches. A thin carpet of powdered red clay covered them like a strip of filthy gauze bandage, and they were littered with bleached fists of dried tumbleweed. At the southern end of Two Trees stood a concrete tunnel. One summer, long ago, Rourke and his cousin Rod had painted skull and crossbones above it as a prank, after finding an old Indian burial cave. The outline was still visible on the chipped cement, the work of bored children. It said something of the town of Two Trees that it had never occurred to anyone to bother to remove the crude design. It had simply become a part of this place and its heritage. So am I. Rourke drove on in, straight down Main Street.
Hiram Polson's ancient adobe hotel still dominated the town square. A glimpse inside the lobby would have revealed cracked, peeling walls and rows of silent slot machines that waited patiently for tourists who no longer came. Hi and Louise Polson could never bring themselves to sell it, and now there were
—Nietzsche
1
ROURKE
Dawn.
The long-suffering town of Two Trees looked like short rows of cardboard boxes, painted pastel and left abandoned on the cruel surface of the high desert. Shiny tinfoil covered many of the spider-webbed windows. Sheet metal, cracked bricks and bleached tiles dangled from the walls and patched, sloping roofs. Meanwhile, the harsh, uncompromising Nevada sun threw down waves of heat like shards of broken glass.
Peter drove over the top of the rise, past the two tall cactus trees and whipped to the side of the highway in a spray of sand. His eyes were burning, his skin felt fried and gritty, but for better or worse he was finally home. He got out of the car and looked at the town; the mounds of rock around it, the mountains, so blue and green, above and beyond it. He tucked his blue work shirt back into his jeans, scuffed his boots on the blacktop. Thought: The prodigal son has returned.
Movement. The long barrel of a shotgun moved slowly through the low dunes like a periscope. The head and shoulders of an old man appeared. He wore blue overalls and a billed railroad cap.
"Good morning, Jake," Rourke said.
The wizened figure jerked, startled, and swung the weapon around. Rourke flinched. "Easy," he laughed. "I didn't come all this way to get shot by a friend."
Jake, squinting in the morning sun, studied the tall, wide shape before him. He placed the familiar voice and lowered his gun.
"Pete Rourke? That you?"
"Was the last time I looked, Jake."
"It's been years, boy! What you been up to?"
"Working my ass off down in good old Hollywood. Figured it was high time I came back."
Jake dug for fresh words, came up empty. "Pete. Hot damn. Well, how the hell are you?"
"Just fine, except I may have to change my shorts now. What are you hunting with that cannon?"
A wide grin creased the old man's features. "Badger, I reckon. Somethin's been gettin' to Candace Stone's chickens of late. She asked me to nose around, since her fella's been so downright useless."
"Fella? I thought she'd be living alone out there forever," Rourke said, walking closer.
"She's with Bert, now. No accountin' for taste."
"You've had twenty and some years to speak up, Jake. You telling me you're jealous?"
"Not a bit of it, you young punk! Course, she sure can cook up a storm, Candace. I'll miss the meals."
"Nail the critter, then," Rourke said. "It's bound to earn you a free supper."
"That's just what I'm doin', Pete. You stop by and see me, hear? Glad you're back."
"Thanks. Glad to be back."
Amazingly, he was; more so each passing moment. He returned to his car and waved. The thin old man wandered off, doggedly scanning the ground for badger tracks. Peter started the engine, humming to himself. He drove down the curving slope into town.
The town seemed to balloon sideways and fill the windshield. At least , he thought, this is one place where nothing ever changes.
The railroad tracks, long unused, still crossed from east to west like stitches. A thin carpet of powdered red clay covered them like a strip of filthy gauze bandage, and they were littered with bleached fists of dried tumbleweed. At the southern end of Two Trees stood a concrete tunnel. One summer, long ago, Rourke and his cousin Rod had painted skull and crossbones above it as a prank, after finding an old Indian burial cave. The outline was still visible on the chipped cement, the work of bored children. It said something of the town of Two Trees that it had never occurred to anyone to bother to remove the crude design. It had simply become a part of this place and its heritage. So am I. Rourke drove on in, straight down Main Street.
Hiram Polson's ancient adobe hotel still dominated the town square. A glimpse inside the lobby would have revealed cracked, peeling walls and rows of silent slot machines that waited patiently for tourists who no longer came. Hi and Louise Polson could never bring themselves to sell it, and now there were
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