Peter Rugowski
by Aimee Henkel
Peter Rugowski and the girl waited and while they waited, they watched the endless road and the veiled red cliffs low in the distance where the sun hovered just above the horizon, glowing through waves of dust and heat and silt that spiraled up from the desert floor. There were no trees here, no long, thin branches for the birds to rest so they scurried along the ground, brown and quick like shadows. The unending brush sprouted and clung to the rocky soil, taking water from roots deep in the ground. The girl smacked her gum and her eyes searched his face time and again as she leaned against his truck. She brushed against him, sighing as she pulled away, and then spit her gum against the white concrete wall where countless Mexicans had come to sit and wait for the only bus to Vegas that carried migrants and immigrants and Latinos and God knew what else toward the broken city. He was glad for the bus because it carried the Mexicans away, even though they came back and hunkered down the next day as if waiting was their occupation. They stared at the dirt, baked hard and smooth by the sun like stained glass, and some were hypnotized by the brown earth or the cloudless blue sky, or the infinite desert and the loneliness they saw there, and some talked and laughed and drank beer until the bus came, never taking him into account. “This place is ramshackle,” the girl said. “It ain’t yours.” Peter Rugowski spit against the wall, thinking of the Mexicans who stole from him, or haggled bitterly - though he never gave in; no, not ever - and then there were the mamas who brought filthy, barefoot children. They stared, those black haired beetles, and he hated them. “Would you sell me a beer?” She grinned under the brim of her cap. “No.” “I’ve got cash.” “Let’s not debate it.” He wanted the bus to Vegas to come, but it wasn’t on time. Too tired to wait any longer, he limped inside his store and watched the girl through the dusty window, her red baseball cap covering a gold braid that hung below her waist and made her seem like a little girl, except she towered above him. She followed him inside. “I haven’t got anyone in Vegas.” “No?” Peter said as he rubbed the counter, his reflection as pale as the moon.
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