Red Dust

            Red dust. Red, rust red, my favorite color since I can remember. The dust could blow anywhere it wanted, my mother used to say, it could settle down in one place or blow all over the world with the wind if it wanted to.

            In the summer as a child, after a long day outside playing, I would come home with a reddish hue about me – dust in my hair, on the back of my neck, on the sleeves of my shirt, on the knees of my pants, caked onto my bare calves. And I believed my mother, that I could be free like the dust and that she could too.

            Now as an adult I still value that red dust. Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll walk outside in my bare feet into the dry air and pick up a handful of dust, watching enviously as it slides through my fingertips to float freely in the air.

            In my mind, the dust is the one redeeming quality of Deep Springs, New Mexico, a suburb planted right by the main highway coming out of Albuquerque. It was said that it used to be a Native American village, at least before K-Mart and its construction workers slapped pavement down over the whole thing, trapping the dust under the asphalt, making the mud huts into strip malls, turning the trails into highways. I’ve been stuck here since I was born and the only promise I ever made to my mother was that I would get out of here. 

            That’s what I think about as I drive home, past McDonald’s, Arby’s, Jack-in-the-Box, and Marley’s Deli – the only family owned place left here. As I slow down at the red light, I wonder what it would feel like to turn left instead of right at this intersection, to head onto the onramp with my foot down on the pedal, and not stop ‘til I get far away from this town. This frightening, but wildly tempting thought often crosses my mind after a long day of community college classes and waiting tables at Applebee’s. But I turn right, like I do every other day, and head back home to my husband.

            He’s asleep on the couch when I open the door, Monday night football is just wrapping up, and from the empty beer cans, it looks like his team lost. After I throw my keys on the table he squints at me and says, “You ready to eat dinner or something? I’m hungry.”

            “You know you could’ve eaten without me. I put chicken and rice in the fridge, all you had to do was stick it in the microwave.” I hang up my windbreaker and scarf by the door and walk over to our tiny kitchen.

            “Sorry, hun, just was too tired today.”

            “Right,” I mutter. “Too tired from not looking for the job you don’t have.” I stick the leftovers in the microwave and punch in the numbers, grateful that the steady humming drowns out the rest of Pete’s half-hearted apologies.

            We sit down on the couch around the coffee table and eat in silence for a while. “I got a paper back today,” I offer.

            “Oh yeah? How’d you do?” Pete looks at me with genuine interest.

            “Good. And my boss at Applebee’s said he’ll let me take an earlier shift. It’ll pay a little more but I’ll have to miss class once in awhile. I think I can keep up though.”

            “That’s great, good for you. Have you thought more about working full time? ” He stares at me as if this is obviously the simple solution to all of our troubles. “I could do a little more cooking, you know, to help out. God knows I can’t find a job, with construction the way it is now. I really do wish I could be more useful.”

            “You know I never even meant to be working right now, I wanted to focus on school. The only reason I’m working is because you don’t have a job anymore.”

            “Well that ain’t my fault, sweetie.”

            I bite my tongue and shake my head instead of starting up another argument that would be just like the ones we’ve had many times before.

            I wake up the next morning and shuffle back into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Grateful that I don’t have class today, just work in the afternoon and evening, I put the coffee on and two Pop Tarts in the toaster. Pete shuffles in and sits down, putting his arm around me. “What you up to today, sweetie?”

            “Hmm. I’ve got work from four until eleven. But I’ll be around here this morning,” I say. The toaster springs my Pop Tarts into the air as Pete jumps up to grab one.

            “Thanks,” he says with a grin and disappears back into the bedroom as I glare at him through bleary eyes. I take my coffee and Pop Tart outside to the deck that faces our cramped backyard. The sun is out and the winds are strong, making the tree limbs sway. I watch calmly as the wind dances across the ground, kicking up little flurries of dust that spiral up and float over the fence.

            After an hour of sitting outside enjoying my coffee and free time, I feel like a little kid again. My hands reddish with dirt, my hair wild and windswept, my feet cold, dry, and dusty. I go back inside and find Pete on the couch again.

            “Why don’t you take the car into town before I go to work, and see if anyone’s hiring?” I say, frustrated with Pete’s laziness.

            “I’ve told you already, I want to do something real. I don’t want some boring old job at Wal-Mart or Ralph’s or Wendy’s – ”

            “Or Applebee’s, right?”

            “Well I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, looking hurt.

            “I can’t keep on taking care of you, Pete. That’s not what I’m here for,” I tell him.

            “I know I should start doing something, but it’s the economy sweetie. Even the most successful contractors are firing their construction workers. No one’s hiring.” He looks at me helplessly. “What’s that all over you?”

            “Oh, nothing. I was just sitting outside and got a little dusty.”

            “Heh. Better take a shower before Applebee’s, or all those dishes you’re serving will have a little extra spice to them,” he looks up at me, expecting a laugh.

            I don’t smile at his attempt to salvage our conversation. My face is blank as I go to the bedroom to prepare for work. I scrub my hands clean, but can’t seem to get the red color from the beds of my fingernails. I put on my polo, apron, and visor, all emblazoned with a cheery apple. The uniform is hot and itchy and I tug at the collar a few times, feeling uncomfortable.

            The last thing I want to do right now is go to work. I’d rather go read or go to class or just drive listening to music for hours on end. Anything but the simple, mind numbing routine of putting on a chipper front for customers just as a weak attempt to get good tips. Anything but serving food to people all night, just to come home and find out that my husband is hungry and expects me to cook for him.

            I shake my head, I can ignore it, I can endure. I pack my bag. I make the bed. My movements feel robotic. I still feel stiff in this awful ugly uniform.

            “I’m going,” I tell him.

            “Alright, yeah, see you later sweetie. Have fun,” Pete answers back, eyes glued on the TV.

            I don’t say anything as I walk out the door.

            I fumble with the keys unlocking the car and again in the ignition. I start the engine and turn on the radio to calm my nerves. I drive through my neighborhood, past houses that are in my childhood memories. At this stop sign, I remember riding my bike with my mother and hearing her warning about crossing the street. Don’t cross too soon or you’ll be sorry, she would say, but when you’re ready you have to assert yourself. I laugh emptily, wishing my troubles could still be as easily solved as they were back then.

            I pass Marley’s Deli, where as a young teenager I would venture by myself to buy candy and soda during the summer. There was something exciting about how I could take as long as I wanted to pick out the perfect piece of candy without my mother looking over my shoulder telling me to hurry up. I would walk back slowly, biding my time, dragging my feet and creating big clouds of dust behind me.

            My old high school is in front of a big asphalt parking lot that glimmers with heat. I first met Pete here, his tall frame leaned casually against his truck; he offered to help me after I realized I had locked my keys in the car. I fell in love with his stupid grin and his deep voice that always called me sweetie. But that was before we had to be adults and worry about money and jobs and cooking meals. I wish there was some way to turn around and go back a little. If I had the chance to live my life over again, knowing what I know now, I’d do things differently.

            But I have to go forward – it’s a green light. I reluctantly pass through the intersection, but the car seems to be moving slowly, lingering, as if something is pulling it back. I look ahead to the next light. On the right is the turn into the Applebee’s parking lot, on the left the onramp to the freeway.

            My hands are shaking as I pull up to a stop at the red light. My foot is tense on the gas pedal and I’m starting to sweat. The tie of my apron is squeezing in my stomach, making it hard to breathe. I desperately tug at it and throw it onto the passenger’s seat. I take my hat off too and without its brim narrowing my vision I can see the entrance to the freeway.

            The light changes to green. I feel blinded, paralyzed by the intensity of the color. I inch out into the intersection, suddenly unsure of what I am supposed to do. I can’t hear the radio that’s still on inside, I can’t hear the cars behind me honking, all I can hear is my mother’s voice in my head telling me don’t cross too soon and Pete’s gravelly voice calling me sweetie. I want to go forward, I want to get this over with, for this to be done, I don’t know why I’m having so much trouble making a right hand turn.

            My boss at Applebee’s is waiting for me, the customers are hungry for their food, Pete is expecting to see me come through the front door in a few hours. My hometown, my boss, my classes, my teachers, and my husband – they are all expecting something of me. And I can’t give them any more.

            It is clear to me now. I whip the steering wheel to the left and stomp down on the gas pedal. Aiming for the onramp, a bittersweet smile creeps across my face as my car roars and the wind combs through my hair. When I look back in my rearview mirror all I can see is a billowing cloud of red dust.