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Small Pleasures
- Southern Illinois University Press
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72 Small Pleasures Mojave Desert, California Noon, one hundred fourteen degrees, no breeze except the breeze we make going ten miles an hour in the pickup, no road, just open flat desert, low brush and scattered rock, the Mojave somewhere west of Edwards Air Force Base. We’re eating our sandwiches, the boss and I, drinking cups of cold water from the thermos jug on the seat between us. We carry three gallons of water for each man to get us through to four o’clock, when we head for cold beer at the bar. He hasn’t said anything for some time, just chews and drinks, chews and drinks, stares out at the heat waves as the pickup bumps along. Covered with dust and oil, we’ve been out here since five a.m. working on the road. Now we’re leaving the road behind. Last night, stopped at a phone booth on the way to the motel, I watched moths swarm at the light while he tried to call home, was it? Something was wrong, bad connection, something. He got angry, yanked the phone off the cord and threw it on the ground. He didn’t try to explain, and I didn’t ask. We went to our rooms and slept. We’ve finished our lunch and cigarettes. I look over thinking to say something about how a day like this makes me appreciate small pleasures, a little shade, this cushioned seat, a cold tomato with salt, but his fifty-year-old eyes are closed, his head 73 fallen to one side, mouth open, hands in his lap, no longer steering. Out here it doesn’t seem to matter. Even the snakes, tortoises, and horned lizards are underground. It’s a big desert and we’re all alone. I lean back, close my eyes. This too is a pleasure, moving off into the open where the work is never done. ...