a big bunch a' mess

J.J. Pugh never wanted you to know. That’s why he disappeared. He didn’t care to be missed. Didn’t matter. What really mattered is that the ripples he left behind dissipate as quick as possible, any memories of him expunged from theirs. J.J. was through.

Not that it takes that long. Out of sight out of mind, and JJ was gone before he knew it. They didn’t care. No one went looking. No one called his disconnected number. No messages from his past.

He was finally alone and set free from any sense of obligation or responsibility. But it hurt deep.

In a canyon in a desert he screamed his lungs raw, his throat course….for hours…for a night….and still could not expunge the pain. By morning he awoke to a glorious sunrise, watching lavender shadows draw with the light, ripples of wind, and the hoarse croaking of desert birds, and the pungent smell of creosote like a dry crackle about to spark.

Survive the night and face the day. The night will only cool you, but the day will cook you. JJ was in a bunch of Mess. Scorpions danced across the stage in front of him. His head against the sand, he watched them on the horizontal – the angle of his perspective. They danced like a goddam floor show. Close and closer, pinchers rising, tails curling. He was a big problem in their lives, and JJ could take a hint and split.

It was no effort at all until he got to the highway. Once there, he caught his breath. Walked out to the middle of the deserted desert stretch, looked long at nothing, and wept. He was a bit of a weenie.

Pugh knew he was through unless a vehicle came into view. Fair enough a rationalization, and, yes, even a reality. Or was it a hallucination born of desperation? An illusion of disillusion. And if the dream bore fruit would it bore right through him?

He was lost in his own body - witness to his own mind.

He was aware that what mattered to him at this juncture, bore no real effect on everything around him. The vast flat forever. The battered ribbon of an old highway wandering off to nowhere. Himself just a speck. Barely a pixel. Insignificant, and as indistinguishable as road kill or tumbleweed.

"Watch what ya' wish for, Pugh." the voice said.