Comrades

The two dogs settled down in the shade of a joshua tree. It was high afternoon. The desert sun was pelting down on the flat stucco houses, its sullen citizens, its animals.

“Goddamn sun,” Hector, the chihuahua said. “It’s too much. We’re dying out here, Tommy.”

“The luster is gone, comrade.” the pug said. “There was a time I was the favorite. I was the fucking baby. I was the king.”

Tommy looked across the dry backyard. A cracked landscape. Stinky yellow flowers dotted the hard dirt. Dead tumbleweeds gathered in the corner of the yard. A scorpion came out of its burrow and settled on a stone flecked with silver chips.

“What happened?” Hector mocked.

“You. Your ass showed up. Got the couch, the air-conditioner. The little pillow and matching blanket. I saw that shit. It was disgusting.”

“That’s a horrible story,” Hector said and closed his big Mexican eyes.

“You’re damn right it is.”

Hesperia was a small desert town, population: 13,362. Faded buildings. A pizza parlor, billiards. A thin four-lane road leading out of town. The sun pulled higher in the sky and moved above the San Bernardino Mountains and primed the desert. The heated stone lulled the scorpion, its silver chips reflecting a dozen joshua trees strung up in ancient desert shapes. The scorpion sighed. And then it whistled a soft river song. A faint wind came out of the west sending the scorpion’s melodies towards rusted flat train tracks of Barstow.

Hector was dreaming that he was in Yosemite. He was scaling Half-Dome and looking out at Red Peak’s Pass. Tommy was having a reoccurring dream where he’s in Vegas and sees a drunken burro shitting money.

Like clockwork the dogs woke up and moved to the shade of another joshua tree. The scorpion followed, toiled in deciding which stone was best, then found one, and began to whistle yet another river song. Tommy fell back asleep and had a nightmare that the owners had another baby, this time a boy named Christopher. The kid was ugly. Big head. Red as a lobster. Hector was dreaming that he was dreaming. Two hours passed.

Then the owners pulled into the driveway. The dogs jumped up and rushed the fence. Their tails whipped back and forth like grass. They drooled. Their eyes bugged. Hector farted and his ears shot up like if he heard a strange dog bark. The husband got out of the car holding an armful of groceries. Then the wife opened the van door. She turned around holding baby Laura, twelve weeks old. The mother grabbed Laura’s hand and waived at the dogs. Laura and her mother disappeared in the house.

The sun was getting softer, the heat was subsiding and it slowly started sinking behind the San Bernardino Mountains and down into the sea. Three doves pecked at the hard desert dirt.

“So what happened to you, Hector? Why are you out here?” Tommy asked.

“The sickest of the sickest things happened, comrade. Human deception. Fads. Shifting politics.”

“Laura,” Tommy said, shaking his head.

“Laura,” Hector said and closed his big Mexican eyes and fell back to sleep.