Zero Point

By Roger Houston

The sun hung in the center of the sky, a merciless white hole, baking the cab of the truck where Gynx sat leaning forward against the steering wheel. She rested her cheek against the back of her hands, watching the light desert breeze move the creosote branches by the side of the road. “What’s your deal with Becca anyway?”

Austin pulled another adjustable wrench from the milk crate in the back of the truck and walked back around to the engine, muttering to himself as he fiddled with the battery cables. “I just like her, that’s all.”

Gynx rested her chin on her hands, waiting for him to ask her to try it again. “Yeah, but what do you like about her?”

There was a clunking from deep inside the engine compartment as he worked, his wrench banging against metal. “She’s just, you know, fun to be around.”

“How would you even know?”

“You can just tell.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Knock it off, Gynx.”

“Have you seen her since she got back from school?” She slid her sunglasses up to her forehead to look him in the eye, but he hid behind the hood of the truck, still trying to scrub the chalky white buildup from the battery terminals.

“No.”

“Because she doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“Just try it again.”

Gynx stomped the clutch, checked that it was still in gear, and clinging to the wheel with her left hand, she turned the key again. Nothing happened, not a click, not a ticking, not even a buzz. “It’s dead,” she said.

“Dead?” He fiddled with a wire again. “Try it again.”

Gynx turned the key. Nothing happened. “Seriously, Austin, can we just walk to Darlene’s from here?”

“I’m not leaving my truck, Gynx.”

Gynx flopped back in the cab, collapsing into the sticky vinyl seat. “Seriously, Austin. Seriously?” She launched herself out of the cab, slamming the door shut behind her. “It is Tuesday, and nearly two o’clock, and they are about to change shifts at Darlene’s, and you are still trying to fix some jenky-ass battery cables that you should have replaced a year ago.”

Austin leaned over the engine, elbows on the fender, and the hood of the truck for shade. His T-shirt was already soaked through, and his knuckles grease-stained again. He squinted up at her, shoulders slouched. He sighed and surveyed the dirt road that led deeper into the hills, or a hundred yards back to the highway and a two mile walk back to town. His truck was far enough to the side that nobody would hit it, and ugly enough that nobody would try to fuck with it. If anybody from town saw it, they’d recognize it, and if he waited long enough, somebody might show up. Jeremiah might bring the tow truck, but the humiliation was more than he could bear. “How dead is your phone?” he asked.

“As dead as your truck, Austin.”

He hung his head. “Alright.” He stood and pulled the metal rod that propped up the hood. “Grab my bible and lock it up.” He dropped the hood shut. Gynx reached into the cab, pulled the dog-eared Toyota shop manual from the dashboard, stuffed it into her pink backpack and popped both locks. Austin tossed his tools back in the milk crate, wiped his hands on a rag. He ran his wrist across his forehead to clear away the sweat, but it only spread the grime. Pulling the tarp back over the tools in back, just in case anyone got too curious, he followed Gynx down the gravel road back to the highway.

 Between passing big rigs, the air was still and hung on them like extra weight. The only sound was their footsteps on the decomposing granite gravel and an occasional cicada calling for a mate from somewhere in the dry foliage. The occasional desert breeze was hot, dry, and smelled of sage and sunbaked asphalt. Under a direct sun, their sweat evaporated quickly.

“You know she’s just not into you.”

“Knock it off, Gynx.”

“I mean, if she was even remotely interested, she would have at least dropped by the shop to see you.”

“Just leave it alone.”

She snorted her reply and kept walking. Again, the only sound was her canvas kicks treading lightly and Austin’s well-worn steel toe boots, his long, slow stride keeping a constant rhythm in the crumbling gravel that lined the road. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the banal desert scene and watching for snakes on the asphalt ahead. She scanned the desert watching for hawks overhead or jackrabbits scurrying through the brush.

She was right, but Austin would never admit it. He’d had a crush on Becca since the third grade, and despite the fact that he’d never said more than a few words to her all through high school, he seemed to think that one day she would notice him and fall desperately in love with him. There was, of course, no reason for Rebecca Deweiss, the only girl in Arroyo Grande ever to throw a coming out party, to fall for a guy whose idea of dressing up involved changing out of his old sweaty oil-stained white V-neck T-shirt for a freshly washed oil-stained white V-neck T-shirt. She drove a convertible white Jetta which her parents replaced every other year and attended UCLA, studying to be a weather girl. He was a guy who worked the parts shop down at the Desert Sands service station and couldn’t seem to scrub the motor oil out of his callouses. Becca had weekly mani-pedi appointments. Austin fixed blown radiators for tourists who broke down on their way through the Mojave. They lived in different worlds.

He strode steadily along, probably more consumed with his engine problems than anything else, and oblivious to anything remotely human. Even a mile away, his head was still under the hood of the truck. Gynx hooked her thumbs in her backpack shoulder straps, watching Austin from the corner of her eye. She snorted again, but he ignored her. She didn’t really want to upset him, but he really had no clue how dating worked. He knew more about fuel injection than he did about first kisses, and despite the fact that he was a few years older, Gynx didn’t like watching him pine for a girl that ignored him completely. She watched him stroll along, hands in his pockets, head still under the hood of the truck.

The thing is, he wasn’t a bad guy. He wasn’t like a lot of the other boys. Sure, they’d pretty much been raised together, so she might be a little bit biased, but she knew Austin better than anyone else did. He was good to his mom. He was good to her mom. He helped Mr. Englehorn, the old guy that lived between them. Maybe he wasn’t the most ambitious guy in Arroyo Grande, but he didn’t mind working for what he wanted. He was slow and steady and reliable and that’s what she liked about him. He was that invariable stride, eyes fixed on the horizon, accompanying her to Darlene’s for her Tuesday afternoon grilled cheese. She liked his stability. Even stuck out in the middle of the desert, she felt safe somehow. She knew, after years by his side, that Austin would get her home. But because he was that way, so calm and steady, she knew that girls like Rebecca would take advantage of him if they could, and she felt that he needed her protection.

In a way, she felt bad for teasing him. She wanted to soften it, apologize or something, but he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, waiting for the first highway signs to announce gas, food and lodging in another mile. Darlene’s would be one of the first buildings on the main drag, right on the very edge of where the outlying desert gave way to parks, parking lots, and civilization. She checked her watch. They were a little late. The afternoon shift would be starting, and the night cooks always seemed to mess up her grilled cheese order. She glanced off into the hills, feeling a mild twinge of anxiety. A flash of something, like sunlight through a crystal bauble caught her eye.

Gynx stopped walking and stared out into the desert, squinting at the base of the foothills. She propped her sunglasses up on her forehead and peered off into the creosote and Joshua trees that led up to the side of the hill.

Austin stopped, following her gaze. “What is it?”

“I saw something flash over there, like a mirror or something.”

Austin squinted off at the arroyo nestled in the hills. “Probably some trash in the wash or something.”

“Not trash. It was iridescent.”

“What?”

“It was like, all rainbowy.”

“You’ve been in the sun too long.”

“I’m telling you Austin, there’s something over there.”

“Alright, alright. We’ll go check it out when we come back for the truck.”

She stared off into the wash, tilting her head to the side, trying to catch the light again. “Let’s go now.”

Austin glared at her for a moment. “You wanna go to Darlene’s or what?”

She kept staring, somehow drawn to it.

“The kitchen is about to switch, Gynx, and we ain’t walking up into the hills without water.”

She nodded, pulled her sunglasses down again and reluctantly turned to follow his steady stride back into town.

The phone rang just out of Ashley’s reach, she leaned over slightly, stretching perfectly manicured sky-blue fingernails. “Little Miss Ashley’s self-help service line, how can I help you help yourself?”

“Hey Ash.”

“Oh hey. What’s up Austin?”

“Truck’s fucked.”

“Where are you?”

“Darlene’s.”

“They got pie today?”

“Uh…” Austin leaned out of the phone booth to get a better look at the counter. “Yeah, they have pie.”

“That chocolate one with the whip cream?”

“Probably.”

“Say yes, Austin, your ride depends on it.”

He leaned out again to get a better look. “Yes.”

“Order me a slice. I’ll be there in a minute.” She tapped a fingernail against the screen without looking at it and brushed the Dorito crumbs from her cleavage. “Come along Sir Pugsley, it is time for pie.”

Sir Pugsley snorted, stood on the far end of the couch and rattled his ass, releasing a puff of greying dander and fur. He barked once, a hoarse and forced reply. Ashley finished brushing the crumbs from her hot pink hoodie.

Darlene’s was built back in the seventies, back when everything was burnt orange and formica tabletops. It had not changed much since then. There was still a phone booth in the back corner, and despite the fact that the payphone had long since been removed, people generally used it as a quiet spot to make phone calls because it blocked out the cacophony of forks and knives on plates, the constant golden oldies station playing, and the clamor of cooks and waitresses calling for an order coming or going from the window. Austin slid the folding door back and stepped back into the dull din of the bustling diner.

Gynx sat at their usual corner booth, sipping her lemonade as Austin took his seat and opened his manual. The waitress dropped a couple of plates, unloading from a stack of them on her arm. She checked for napkins and refills and then drifted away to drop plates at the next table.

Gynx peeled back the bread and winced. “Oh. Oh no.” She shook her head.

“What?”

She dropped the grilled cheese back on the plate and slid it away from her on the table.

He picked up the sandwich and peeled back the bread. “Alright. I’ll fix it.”

She just shook her head.

Austin flagged down the waitress. “Sorry, Lisa.” He slid the plate to the edge of the table.

“Oh hell, hon. They did it again?” Lisa cocked her hip and glanced back at the kitchen.

Austin glanced over at Gynx; her face turned away because she couldn’t stand the sight of it. He nodded, picked up the plate and handed it to the waitress. “Do you mind?”

“Alright hon, I’ll get that fixed for you.” She glanced at the plate, still hot. “Guess I’m getting a grilled cheese for lunch today.” She winked at him.

As the waitress walked away, Gynx glanced down at the palm of her hand and began humming, quietly. Austin watched her slip back into a practiced meditation, clutching her hand, staring into her palm until she slowly closed her eyes, her humming growing softer until she opened her eyes again.

Gynx got the nickname from her mother, just after her father left them. Nobody ever directly accused Gynx’ father of leaving because of her, but it might have been the only thing that nobody had accused him of. He wasn’t exactly well loved around the neighborhood anyway, but a year or two after she was born, after they took her in for testing, he split the scene and became a ghost. He still paid child support and sent her cards for her birthday, but as the years wore on it became apparent that he didn’t really understand. He kept sending her blocks and coloring books long after she was getting straight A’s in advanced algebra and killing it in honors classes.

It was a spelling error on a first-grade art piece that stuck the nickname for good. Mrs. Mortland was enamored with Gynx from the beginning; the girl who refused to be called Amber, and signed her name in capital letters, GYNX. Shortly before her retirement that year, Mrs. Mortland had the name changed in the files, and the defiant little Amber Nash had been Gynx ever since. Only her mother and, on occasion Austin, ever called her Amber. She didn’t much like it.

She always started her grilled cheese from the bottom corner, working her way along the edges, eating the crust first. She took tiny methodical bites throughout the entire process, and as dainty as it seemed, she would not speak through the first half. When she ate the top half, she followed the same procedure, but reserving the split in the bread until she had consumed the rest of the crust. Only after the delicate removal of the crusts, was conversation allowed, and she would start it.

“So, what do you think it is?”

Austin chomped through a few fries, dipped in A-1 and mayonnaise. “Probably the alternator.” He shrugged and continued to flip through the manual.

Gynx stopped chewing and stared at him until he glanced up.

“What?” he said.

“Your truck is a piece of shit. Your cables are rusted out, your terminals are frosted, and your plugs are destroyed. Germ told you that two weeks ago.”

“Hrm.” Austin grumbled and bent down over the manual. “Then why are you asking?”

“What do you think the thing in the wash is?”

“I don’t know, a wrecked-out car maybe. People dump shit out there all the time.”

She shook her head. “It was too shiny.”

“Fine. Maybe a mirror. Maybe there’s some busted-up furniture out there.”

“I want to go see what it is.”

Austin nodded, not really paying attention. He knew that she would find a way to drag him out there and he wasn’t thrilled about it. Gynx was still young enough that she was fascinated with the trash back in the washes, and as her constant companion, he would be with her to go have a look. It was true, over the years, they had managed to find some interesting stuff out there, a few times they’d found some old steel furniture. It was worth a few bucks for scrap metal when they dug it out of the wash and trucked it back into town. More often than not, it was just garbage, and not really worth the effort it took to trek up into the hills. Nonetheless, he knew he’d be headed out there with her. In the meantime, he just wanted his truck back. To get it started, he was going to need the battery jumpbox from the shop, and he was fairly certain that Jeremiah was going to be a jerk about it.

Austin heard a glasspack growl from the parking lot, announcing Ashley’s arrival, and glanced out the front window to watch the lowered black mustang roll slow, growling low as Ashley stalked the perfect empty spot in a nearly empty lot.

The bell rang above the front door, and Ashley came into the diner with her usual flare, waving at everyone as if she had just won a beauty pageant. Despite the fact that the diner had a no pet policy, Sir Pugsley pranced along ahead of her, entirely unconcerned. She had waved off the complaints so many times that nobody bothered anymore, and it was generally accepted that Ashley would be accompanied by Sir Pugsley regardless. Sir Pugsley hopped up and took his usual seat beside Gynx as Ashley slid in beside Austin. Gynx dipped a French fry in ketchup and fed it to Sir Pugsley. He snorted his approval. The two of them had been raised together, and there was a distinct possibility that Sir Pugsley regarded Gynx as a sibling. 

“Where’s my pie?” Ashley scowled.

Austin didn’t turn his head from the dog-eared manual. “I didn’t want the whip cream to melt. They’ll bring it out soon.”

As if by her own magic she had made it appear, Lisa bustled by with Ashley’s pie, a couple of napkins, and a fork.

“How delightful,” Ashley said withdrawing the napkin and setting it gingerly in her lap.

Miss Ashley made her money. Nobody bothered to ask how, but she had a variety of clients in a variety of cities, and she was regularly obliged to travel. As such, Sir Pugsley spent a lot of his time with Austin and Gynx. Ashley regularly announced a new business opportunity and by default, Austin and Gynx were inevitably employed. It was worth a few bucks at least, and it was generally entertaining.

Austin flipped back to a wiring schematic. “So, what’s up with the self-help hotline? What happened to the detective agency?”

“We didn’t solve a single case.”

Gynx paused, ketchup glistening French fry poised a few inches from Sir Pugsley’s waiting maw. “What about Mrs. Stanley?”

“Everyone knew that Mr. Stanley was cheating on her, and I couldn’t take her money to pass along gossip. That’s how I got the idea to start a self-help call center. While I was telling Mrs. Stanley that her husband was a cheating bastard, I realized that I should just give advice. She was my first client.”

“But the triple A detective agency was such a cool name,” Gynx said. She dipped another fry in ketchup and passed it along to Sir Pugsley.

“It’s still listed in the phonebook,” Ashley said.

Gynx shook her head. “Nobody uses the phonebook anymore.”

Ashley cut another forkful of pie and held it poised before her mouth. “I happen to think that it’s classy.” She forked the pie into her mouth, chewed it twice and held her tongue out at Gynx, molten prechewed chocolate cream pie dripping from her tongue.

Gynx flashed her own tongue, and a half chewed French fry with ketchup.

Austin shook his head. “Can we just get the fuck out of here?”

Ashley cut another piece from her pie and addressed the dog. “Sir Pugsley, would you please hold all my calls until I have finished my pie. Thank you.”

Sir Pugsley, at hearing his name, regarded Ashley with an inquisitive look, snorted a reply, and glanced towards Gynx, awaiting his next French fry.

Mr. Ouija was a late model flat black Ford Mustang dropped within six inches of the concrete with mag wheels and expensive racing tires that were quickly going bald. Ashley claimed that she won it fair and square and drove it in such a way that she was constantly squealing around sudden turns. The fenders bore a few scrapes and scars that were never satisfactorily explained, and she didn’t like people asking about them. She claimed that it was drift racing, and she had to practice if she ever wanted to go pro. To anyone else in the car, driving with her was a white knuckled series of near misses and near-death experiences. She had, at the very least, given up texting while screeching through the streets. Her visor held a selection of gadgets, Radar detectors, navigation screens and her phone plugged into the speakers, blasting her newest favorite flavor of music. Currently, it was Narco Corridos for no apparent reason. Ashley said it suited the car.

Early in the summer the Highway Patrol was out in full force, awaiting tourists flying too fast through what they felt might be a forgotten desert town. As such, Ashley drove like she’d memorized the DMV instruction manual. Windows down and music up a little too loud for conversation, she maintained the perfect speed limit down the highway from Darlene’s, even giving a chipper smile and wave to the highway patrol car tucked in behind the willow tree where the speed limit dropped to 35 mph. She pulled into the Desert Sands front lot, downshifting to let the glass packs growl out as she pulled up to the pumps. A dull clanging bell sounded from somewhere inside the repair bays.

Late in the afternoon, the Desert Sands lived up to its name. For lack of a decent paint job in decades, the sun baked and sandblasted sign, fuel bays, and the garage itself were a gypsum dust white, decaying back to the color of the salt flats which stretched out beyond the chain link fenced backlot. Aside from the collection of recently towed wrecks and finished repairs waiting for pick up, the front lot was empty of customers. The front room was empty, not that there was a full-time clerk to man the cashier’s counter; on the weekends, that might have been Austin. When Ashley cut the engine, the faint sound of Mexican music continued from somewhere inside the repair bays, but calling out to the empty lot, low and mournful. A figure emerged from the shadows in the bay, crouching beneath the undercarriage of a burgundy Plymouth Cruiser with Arizona plates. Austin waved as he stepped out of the car. Gynx kicked the front seat forward as she wriggled her way out of the backseat. Manny stepped from the shade of the garage out into the late afternoon, squinting up at the sun where it sizzled right over top of the western hills, baking the scraggly pines. “¡Oye!” Manny called, ignoring Austin, “¿Como estas guerra?”

Ashley giggled girlishly and wiggled her fingers at him from the driver’s seat. “Hey there, Manny!”

“¿Cuando quieres tu vestido de sed?”

“How you flirt, Manny.” Ashley giggled again. “You kiss Pilar with that mouth?”

Manny waved her away and chuckled softly. Austin flashed a handful of bills at Manny and hooked a thumb towards the register. Manny nodded and waved him off as well.

“Jeremiah back there?” Austin called.

“Si, Güey.” Manny turned towards the open bay, ducking under the back bumper of the Cruiser and vanishing back into the cool shadows of the garage. The bell above the door rang as Austin stepped into the front room. He casually slid in behind the sales counter, dropped his twelve dollars in the register and punched the few keys to start the pump. He watched as Gynx pulled the pump handle and started to gas it up. He glanced around the shelves of parts, most of them fairly generic. Wiper blades, batteries, a selection of oil and antifreeze and a bin full of various radiator hoses for the most common fixes. On the bottom shelf behind the counter, he rifled through the will-call parts, digging for the terminals and cables he’d ordered a week ago. They still hadn’t arrived. He pushed out past the counter and made his way to the back.

Jeremiah lived in a rusted out thirty-foot airstream trailer behind the Desert Sands towing and automotive company. Set on concrete blocks in the back corner of the lot, the trailer was abandoned by someone who didn’t have the money to pay the towing fees. The trailer might have rusted back to a pile of oxidized tin if String Bean hadn’t finally gotten released from the clink.

He worked the counter most days, and when they were busy, he worked in one of the bays with the Jimenez brothers, Manuel and Paco. The brothers had been working for the shop for over 20 years. They did a fair amount of business with travelers who broke down on the highway, but most of the customers were locals in for routine maintenance. Oil changes, tire rotations, an occasional windshield ding and a rush of desperate customers who showed up for new windshield wipers at the start of the first winter rains.

Most afternoons, when the sun got to baking the whole town, Manny and Paco would abandon the repair projects and retreat into a case of beer in the shadiest corner of the mechanics bays. Jeremiah tinkered at something until it got to be too uncomfortable to be digging around under the hood of a car. By late afternoon he was generally reclined under the trailer awning, dozing in a dusty, old, cracked leather lazy boy, watching a beat-up flat screen at the corner of his porch. He had a beer going warm in his hand, and with his sunglasses on, it was difficult to tell if he was sleeping until he guessed at a game show trivia question. Austin kicked some gravel as he crossed the lot. Jeremiah raised his beer in salutation.

Austin strolled up under the awning and squatted on a milkcrate just at the edge of the shade. “What’cha watchin’?”

Jeremiah shrugged, slid his sunglasses down his nose an inch and inspected the discolored screen. “Fuck if I know. Wheel of Fortune?” a cheery commercial played out a familiar ad for an antidepressant, mumbling quickly through potential side effects. He leaned over, cracked the fridge a few inches, pulled out a bottle of beer, and held it towards Austin.

“I only got a minute.”

Jeremiah lazily shook the bottle at him.

Austin was never very good at borrowing tools. He generally waited for Jeremiah to offer them. He took the bottle, twisted off the cap and took a long pull, glancing over his shoulder towards the shop, in case Gynx was nearby. “I’ve only got a minute.”

Jeremiah reached for his pack of Camel Wides, tapping one from the pack. “Then drink fast.” He placed the filter to his lips and reached for the lighter. “What’s on your mind, friend?”

Austin kicked at the gravel and sand at his feet, smoothing it over the pocked and pitted asphalt of the lot. “I need the jumpbox.”

Jeremiah took a long pull from his own beer and rattled his head at the screen, waiting as Pat Sajak prepared for the next round.

Austin sat patiently; beer held loosely but obediently in his hand.

Pat Sajak welcomed everyone back and reintroduced his contestants and scores before he moved on to the next category. Jeremiah took a sip from his beer and watched the screen. Austin followed him, taking a polite gulp from his own bottle, watching the screen. Sajak continued: “Our next category is vacation destinations…”

Ashley honked the horn out front. Austin took another nervous sip from his beer. Jeremiah said nothing. The horn sounded again, longer and less polite. Austin cleared his throat.

Jeremiah’s head lolled over to stare at Austin from behind mirrored aviators. “Well I’m not gonna go get it for you.” He turned back to the screen.

“Thanks.” He downed the last of his beer, almost set the bottle down, then glanced around for a place to put it. Jeremiah took the empty from him, slid it into one of the empty cylinders on the old V8, nodded and waved him away. “Grab me a six pack on your way back.”

Ashley popped the trunk as Austin crossed the lot with the jumpbox. He set it gingerly in the trunk, careful not to bump the carpeted box that held the obnoxiously large subwoofers. Climbing back into the front seat, Ashley started Mr. Ouija and gunned the engine for the low growl to announce their departure. Manny and Paco waved from the mechanics bay, raising their beers. Ashley giggled girlishly and twiddled her fingers at them.

She rolled easily out of the lot, careful as she turned down the street, taking the edge of the lot at an angle to avoid scraping the bottom of her fiberglass ground effects kit. She kept the music up too loud to talk, but nobody seemed to mind too much. Making her way back into the neighborhood streets that edged up to the hills, she followed a path that she had been taking for years, back into her old neighborhood. She tapped her fingernails against the leather cover on the steering wheel keeping time to a song that she didn’t really understand. As they neared the cul-de-sac that they all grew up on, she side eyed the house where she was raised, a little one-story Spanish style stucco ranch house that her uncle had owned. Despite a new paint job, she still shuddered as she passed it and continued down the street to the very end, swinging around to the curb in front of Austin’s house. She hit the mute button and waited as Austin attempted to bashfully thank her for the ride.

“I appreciate it,” he mumbled.

“Austin, sweetie, you really need to fix that piece of shit.”

He nodded, sliding out of the front seat, and popping the handle so that the passenger seat bent forward to let Gynx out. “I’m waiting on parts,” he said.

Gynx passed Sir Pugsley forward between the seats and Ashley took him into her lap, thrusting out her chin to receive the slobbery licking. “Yeah, well, maybe you should stick around town until you can do that. I’m not here to play chauffer.”

Austin nodded, slightly embarrassed. Ashley popped the trunk for him so that he could grab the jumpbox.

Gynx pushed past the seat, yanking her backpack behind her. “Thanks, Ash.”

“Gynx, honey, it is always a pleasure. We do not spend enough time together.”

Gynx nodded, bashfully.

“We should have a little play date sometime, you and me. We can paint our nails and trash talk all these greasy little boys you insist on hanging around with.”

Gynx rolled her eyes but nodded.

“Good, settled.” Ashley transferred Sir Pugsley over to the passenger seat and checked her reflection in the vanity mirror, puckering her lips slightly and brushing a few locks of blonde hair back from her forehead. “I’ll come and get you this weekend. Maybe we can find something healthy for lunch and scrape off the stink of motor oil for an afternoon.”

Gynx smiled again, enamored with the idea of spending a little time away from a shop space or garage. She shut the passenger door, and as Ashley revved the engine to let the glass pack unwind, Gynx waggled her fingers, mimicking Ashley’s flirtatious wave goodbye. Mr. Ouija revved again, Ashley hit the gas, and careening a little too fast down the street, she breezed straight past her Uncle’s house and skidded around the corner on the way out of the neighborhood.

Gynx followed Austin as he lugged the jumpbox towards the side door into the garage. He pulled the little chord to unlock the gate and edged in sideways, past the decaying blue tarp that hid his dirt bike. “Your mom working tonight, too?” she asked. Austin nodded. He hefted the jumpbox up onto the workbench in the garage and pulled the dirt bike manual from a shelf above. If they were going to go for the truck, he should probably get the bike running again.

“You are not going to start on that now,” she said. It was more of a command than a question. If she left him alone for long, there was a good chance that he’d be squatting next to a pile of wrenches in less than an hour, poking at the little two-stroke engine again. Slow, steady, and predictable; that’s what she liked about him.

Austin glanced out the window above the workbench, the sun hung just above the hills that loomed over the neighborhood. There were a few hours of decent daylight left on the east side of the valley but hiding in the shadow of craggy decomposing granite on the west side, it was more like twilight. Austin shrugged. “I guess not.”

Gynx pulled his repair manual from her backpack and tossed it on the workbench. “Mom’s got a double tonight,” she said. “Probably won’t be back until five or six in the morning.” Which pretty much meant that Austin would be staying the night to keep Gynx company.

“I’ll text my mom,” he said. He pulled the trickle charger out from under the work bench and plugged it in, unwinding the other cable carefully to keep the battery clamps from clacking together and popping a few random sparks. He carried the little charger out to the length of the power cord, just up to the garage side door. Gynx pulled back the tarp lifted the seat. Austin clamped the red and black clips onto the battery terminals to at least get it charging.

“Want to see if there are any good movies?” she asked.

Austin took an old rag from off the tank and started wiping away a little of the alkaline dust, thinking through the few menial steps he’d have to take to get the bike road ready again. He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.” He squeezed the tires to check for air pressure. They felt fine. There was plenty of time to get the pony started in the morning.

 Gynx flipped off the overhead garage light and started out the gate towards her house. “I think we got some nacho fixings,” she said.

Austin trailed behind her, wiping his hands on his jeans. A few hours later he was reclined on the couch with the dirt bike repair manual in his lap, still thinking about the dusty two stroke engine as Gynx pulled tortilla chips from the cupboard and a big block of cheddar from the fridge.

2.

Sgt. O’Connor was definitely not supposed to be an administrative assistant, and he knew it. A real administrative assistant would understand how an office land line worked, how many scoops of coffee to put in the coffee pot, or how to load a nice heavy weight beige marble cardstock into a photocopier to print updated copies of a resume. He hit the tray select again and hit print on the awaiting file. The copier clenched out an 11×17 inch edition with only the bottom half of his resume blown to children’s book size, on a sort of glossy paper. He crumpled it and tossed it into the overflowing blue plastic trashcan beside the copier.

It took seven years of driving a cruiser around downtown LA before he finally made sergeant, and when he was due for promotion, Martinez approached him about a swank position with a government funded private investigation firm. That it was only barely recognized as a branch of legitimate federal law enforcement and came with a long list of career-ending black ops caveats hadn’t deterred him from the career change. The pay increase was significant and moving to Phoenix seemed like a good idea at the time. To convince his wife, Mary, that it was a good idea, they visited Phoenix to take a tour of the city and the facilities. It happened to be March and the weather was mild.

The real estate market was ridiculously cheap compared to the City of Angels, and Mary loved the idea of moving to a quiet suburb with volcanic rock yards and little succulent gardens. After a tour of the city, and a private tour of the new offices, he and Mary returned to the hotel room with a sprawling view of the desert hills. They discussed quickly and excitedly and made love in a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets, watching a thunderstorm roll towards them, loving the sheer majesty of the wide-open spaces and unencumbered vistas. They didn’t hear a single police siren or gunshot in the entire three days that they were there. A week later he was in his new office. Two weeks after that, she was directing the “strapping lads” moving company crew on the proper placement of their living room furniture. It was terribly romantic, briefly.

The summers in Phoenix weren’t nearly as pleasant as they had hoped. The first summer, when she’d had enough of the 120-degree days, Mary left to spend a few days with her sister, back in Los Angeles. Three years later, Sgt. O’Connor was paying half the rent on a beach adjacent house where Mary would spend the entire summer. He, on the other hand, would spend the entire summer driving six hours back and forth across the hottest, most desolate stretch of highway in the corner pocket of the country, dodging tumbleweeds and jackrabbits in the sticky sunbaked cab of a black Crown Victoria.

“But hell,” he muttered to himself. “At least the money is good.” An alarm sounded behind the copier and something in its guts made a strained grinding noise. He tugged at the page. It looked like it was printing right, now the machine just needed to “Spit the freakin’ thing out!” he grumbled. As occupied as he was, he didn’t notice the chief pulling into the parking lot.

Chief Martinez walked into the offices, greeted by the familiar blast of wind from the blower directly above the front door. Whether it had been installed to keep the hot air from getting in, or just blow the cold air out, Martinez did not care. Walking from 120 heat through a blast of frigid air was like diving into a winter pool. He had never much liked it, and he liked it less as his hair thinned out. It would undoubtedly be the next piece of equipment that he unplugged. He picked through the unsorted pile of mail on the corner of the front desk, sifting through a collection of coupons, ads, and various catalogues that no one had bothered to cancel when they were laid off.  

Most of the cameras were shut off when they lost the last of their security detail. The few that still worked were mostly just there so that Martinez could keep his eyes on the staff when he was out of the offices. The metal detectors had been shut off for a couple of years because everybody in the place, and just about everyone who had reason to stop by, had a concealed weapon and a permit to carry it. Most of his staff were former LA police officers who had spent years on duty. When the alarm went off, inevitably a few of them would pull their pieces and the resulting standoffs became tiresome.

Terrestrial Investigations Group had been a lightly subsidized independent contracting firm until the turn of the century. A few years into the new millennium, their division was scooped up as a second, illegitimate cousin to the newly established Department of Homeland Security. And then there were resources. The early aughts were good for business.

The offices abutted a giant warehouse and hangar full of hand-me downs from Iraq and Afghanistan. The military was tossing away armored transports like plastic solo cups at a patio party. A few dents and dings, a little sand up the wheel wells, but with a flat black paint job, they were exactly what people expected from a black ops extraterrestrial investigation unit. They had an armory that the suckers back at the LA precinct would have creamed their pressed polyester pants for. They had a lightly weaponized Blackhawk helicopter and a highly decorated ex-Army combat pilot, just in case of some sort of high-speed aerial pursuit. There was a fleet of stealth black assets that required a team of mechanics, engineers, and operators so large that they had their own holiday party every year. He hand-picked his investigative team from the best in every department. They were the men in black and they were heavily armed, just in case. If the Marine corps couldn’t handle Al Qaeda, Martinez went to work every day feeling fairly certain that he and his team could find Bin Laden, if asked.

But that was the early aughts.

From down the hall Martinez heard a few clattering swats from the break room, followed by a few tinny beeps and some low muttering. He found Sergeant O’Connor apparently trying to either dry hump or sumo wrestle the office copier.

“Sergeant?”

The Sergeant released the machine and froze under the chief’s inquisitive gaze.

“It’s jammed,” O’Connor said.

Martinez blinked at him. “Have you tried asking it nicely?”

O’Connor shrugged and nodded. “I even blew in its ear a few times.”

Martinez stared blankly at O’Connor. “Well then, perhaps you should unjam it.”

If O’Connor wasn’t an administrative assistant, he damn well wasn’t a copy machine technician, either. Looking the chief straight in the eye, he reached out with a flattened palm and swatted the side of the printer again.

Martinez hung his head. He set the small stack of mail on the empty desk beside him, walked over to the printer, and popping the latch on the face of the machine, opened a small plastic door to the inner workings. O’Connor watched his commanding officer reach into the machine, and with a quick tug, he yanked O’connor’s freshly printed resume from the workings. Martinez closed the hatch and pressed a few buttons on the touch screen. A green light blinked at the ready. “There.”

O’Connor watched the page in the Chief’s hand. It was only slightly crumpled, but the chief hadn’t looked at it yet.

Martinez rubbed the bridge of his nose, his thick glasses bouncing against his knuckles. “Try to act like you work here, O’Connor.”

“Nobody else does.” He glanced around at the empty desks.

“It’s an elite division, Sergeant; not a flock of migrating penguins.”

“We used to have a girl at the front desk.”

“We used to have an air-conditioned Stryker command vehicle with satellite uplinks and a .50 cal gun on top.” The chief crumpled the page without glancing at it and tossed it towards the growing pile of crumpled wads spilling over the floor. “Which of those two do you think I miss more?”

Relieved that the chief hadn’t bothered to read it, O’Connor watched the only decent copy yet tumble down to the floor. He absentmindedly rested his wrist on the handle of his Desert Eagle and pouted like a toddler protesting bedtime. “I had the highest conviction record in my precinct, Chief.” He didn’t have to wear his side arm, but he liked it. He still liked having a badge. He still liked his Crown Vic. He was still a law enforcement officer, sort of. “I’m not a secretary,” he whined.

Martinez pulled a mug from the dish rack, sniffed at it and set it on the counter. “You know who has the best conviction record in your precinct now, O’Connor?” He emptied a little packet of Irish cream into the mug and tossed the little green plastic cup into the trash. “Sweeney.”

“Sweeney!? He’s a glorified meter maid!”

“He’s got good numbers and a great record.” Martinez sniffed the coffee pot for freshness. “Your old commissioner won’t let me have him yet, but he isn’t ignoring my calls, either.”

“Sweeney?” O’connor’s voice rose an octave, almost pleading.

Martinez shrugged. “At least he’d tuck his shirt in.”

O’Connor glanced down at the untucked portion of his polo shirt. Dress codes might be lax compared to the precinct, but in the past year, they’d slipped further. The days of crisp black suits were long gone. In the heat of the Arizona desert, most of the agents were happy to shift to chinos and polo shirts. He glanced back at the puddle of crumpled pages littering the floor and bashfully started tucking in his shirt.

Martinez regarded the slipping sergeant with a blend of frustration and pity. “Get back to work, O’Connor.”

O’Connor shuffled out of the breakroom and back to his office, gritting his teeth at the possibility that he might have to work with that smug East coast transplant, Sweeney. He was a traffic cop, a speed trap in starched short sleeves. Getting a conviction on a speeding ticket in Southern California was as easy as pulling onto the freeway at the right hour, provided you wanted to do all that paperwork. He slid into his high-backed Italian leather ergonomic desk chair, listening to the gentle hiss of the hydraulics as it nestled softly to a comfortable position. He pressed the massage power button and adjusted it a little higher. “New cases, Chief.” O’Connor hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a fresh stack of bankers’ boxes beside the front desk.

The boxes which had arrived sporadically for over a decade were ostensibly a collection of case files containing eyewitness accounts, official government briefs, any corroborating evidence, as well as a first draft of an official government statement. They were to be reviewed, researched, and amended, altered, filed or lost, if necessary. As the years wore on and as the staff thinned out it became fairly evident that the accounts were often gibberish field reports written by a beat cop with a high school education, the briefs and evidence were redacted beyond readability, and the government statement was one of three standardized form letters. The case was sent to their division as an efficient way to be both filed and lost. The shelves in storage were already full. As such, a few of the unused back offices had become cold case boneyards with little organization. Without a significant clerical staff to process the files, the current action plan seemed to be to keep filling empty offices. If the Russians or the Chinese ever showed up, last agent out had to throw a match in there.

In Chief Martinez’ opinion, the golden years ended shortly after Obama got elected. Ground troops were replaced with drone strikes and surplus personnel supplies dried up. There was still funding, but the Police departments started picking up the pentagon’s hand-me-downs. As the budgets shifted with the desert sands, the DHS eased back on funding a covert division of “tinfoil hats” with predictably little congressional outcry. It helped that no one knew that the division existed. It was a hell of a lot easier to defund the men in black than it was to defund the Pentagon’s darlings. The fact that during the previous decade there had been little call for any of the amassed military assets didn’t help their case.

Division reviews and audits consistently demonstrated departmental waste. Captain Larson was spending fuel and ammo taking the Blackhawk out on drunken coyote target practice in remote sections of the Arizona desert. When asked to justify the expenditure, Cpt. Larson shrugged and said: “Night vision targeting system testing.” While the auditing panel was satisfied with that answer, they were not as impressed when he answered: “For my fragile post-war mental health,” to questions about the leather couch, mini fridge and margarita slushy machine on another requisition invoice. When the chief asked him privately, Cpt. Larson responded flatly: “If we don’t spend it, they’ll stop sending it.” It was an unfortunate fact that the chief could not argue. After Bin Laden got himself killed, the belt tightened further, and the staff cuts started.

Martinez grabbed his mail off the desk as he meandered down the hall, glancing through the few envelopes in his hand, careful not to spill his coffee, but confident that none of the envelopes were terribly important. He flipped through his keys, trying to balance his load when O’Connor rolled back out of his office.  

“Oh, Chief,” O’Connor leaned back in his high-backed leather desk chair. “Some official docs and a package arrived for ya.” He smiled defiantly and disappeared back into his office.

O’Connor had been such a promising recruit. Top honors. He was the best that the LAPD had to offer; or, at the very least, he was the best that the commissioner was willing to lose.

“Empty the recycling bin, O’Connor.” The chief glanced at the collection of envelopes in his hand and turned back down the hall.

O’Connor didn’t even bother to lean back and look out. “I’m not a janitor, either, Chief,” he called.

The chief stopped again. “Then try emailing your resume and quit wasting my printer ink.”

Satisfied with the resulting silence he continued to his sanctuary.

The chief kept his private office just a few degrees cooler than the rest of the offices. If they insisted upon opening his door every five minutes, for every little detail, he could afford to keep his own room at a frosty 65 degrees. With the blinds drawn to avoid the late afternoon sun his office was sacrosanct, his private space. Stepping from the hall into his office was less like diving into a pool and more like slowly wading into a lake, a gentle transition to a comfortable temperature. As he turned the corner, he found his door propped open a few inches and the lights on inside. He pushed gently and the door swung wide.

Just inside the door a beachball-sized lump of charred and twisted rock sat on a tiny pallet in the middle of his office, resting in the crumpled cellophane nest of the clear plastic stretch wrap that it had arrived in, but had since been peeled away and left there.

“O’Connor?”

The sergeant rolled his chair back again.

Martinez gestured towards the new decorative rock feature.

“It’s a meteorite,” O’Connor shrugged.

“I get that.” He looked it over. “Why is it in my office?”

O’Connor hopped up and hustled over, pushing past the chief to point out a spot on the top of the ball, somewhere near where Iceland should be on a globe. “There are teeth in it, Chief. Human teeth.”

On a closer inspection, Martinez could definitely see three human molars, slightly singed, embedded in the rock and metal. “In a meteorite?” He poked at the charred bit of ceramic, like an archipelago of porcelain falsies, embedded in a hunk of supercooled molten metal alloy that fell from space to earth a few miles outside of Tucson, Arizona just a few days ago. “How in the hell?”

“Beats me, sir.” He shrugged. “Top file is metallurgical composition and lab reports; file underneath is eye-witness testimony.” He pulled the bottom file and flipped it open. “Blew a little business park to bits. Check out the crater pics.” He nodded, smiling brightly.

Martinez glanced down at the file on his desk, clearly stamped “Top Secret” and looked up at O’Connor.

The sergeant shrugged. “Nobody sends real Top-Secret files through FedEx.”