She pulled into the Indian Reservation Station, directly in front of the soda machine. Lynn turned the car key off and the motor quit. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and with her other hand released the door handle. The car door swung open and she rolled out of the low riding Saab. Her blouse was soaking wet across her back. Lynn shut the car door and slung her purse strap over her shoulder. Then pulled her shirt outward, shaking it to allow air to her skin and to shed the sticky shirts grip. She began walking towards the station entrance and stopped when she saw the large woven spider web at the glass. She took one step backwards, then saw the big sign posted in the door’s window: Closed. Straight in front of her was the machine. A large picture of an ice cold can drink molded into the machines facial features. The cold sweat beads were in tiny bubbles along the can’s picture. A tantalizing advertising sales incitement, out here in the desert. Teasing any whom. As I pulled my lone suitcase from the storage area a sudden shadow loomed over me. Looking up I saw a man in his early forties clothed in a flannel shirt, dirt caked work boots, and a pair of faded overalls. He towered over my by at least a head and looked down at me with piercing dark blue eyes. "You'll be John then." ,he rumbled in a deep baritone. "Yes sir." ,I managed despite being intimidated as hell, "John Smith sir." He raised an eyebrow in question. "That's what they put on my birth certificate when they registered me. My parents didn't bother naming me I guess." "Well John Smith, I'm Lester Murphy" he said slapping me on the shoulder and scooping up my suitcase, "Lets get back to the farm before my missus starts to wonder where we've got to." We climbed into his old, beat up farm truck and drove off down the dirt road that stretched off into the distance. As the miles passed, I couldn't help a growing feeling of remoteness as we went by green meadows and, after a while, rows.
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