Ghost Town
The van belonged to Thomas and Troy, the musical duo responsible for this trip. It sat fuming in what little shade we could find while we killed time wandering the dried, deserted streets of an abandoned ghost town nestled amongst the sprawling desert and cattle ranges between El Paso and San Antonio, Texas; a strangely well-known junction that I knew from past experiences of traveling cross country, had little to promise as of help. On this sweltering summer day, it amazed me that this little van chose here, of all places, to rest.
The town offered only a few modest wood and brick buildings. “No Nuclear Waste Aqui!” was spray painted in black above the door of a large vacated gas station that sat at the mouth of Kents meager three-block radius. Most of the windows have been boarded up with planks of wood while the few that remained share glimpses of outdated packages of peanuts and motor oil left inside.
My knees stick together with sweat as we weave in and out of the small houses, where doors have been left wide open. Mostly empty rooms are all that remain, save for the the few artifacts left of a past life: pots and pans, clothing and debris. A pile of rocks sits in front of a door where a hanging sign reads: Please do not enter. This is our home. Although the pile of rocks looks like they’ve sat untouched for centuries, we abide and continue on.
Elsewhere, Thomas and I investigate the contents of cupboards and the spiders that now reside amongst the cracks and corners of the walls. We make up stories of those who had left and the tiny creatures that had stayed behind. Over the last couple weeks, I have grown fond of Thomas. Even though we are the same age, Thomas’s creativity and curiosity for life imparts glimpses of an innocence I feel I had missed out; a rare quality I savored and wanted to protect. His harmonies and lyrical talent never failed to chill me, convincing me he silently saw and understood things that nobody else could. It wouldn’t be until much later that I would finally understand that he really did.
Troy, on the other hand, was a narcissist; the kind of man who never knew when to let things be. Always sitting shotgun, for days he would annoy us with banter that only he found amusing. Grease stains covered the bib of his sparsely changed t-shirts, and his habit of chain-smoking cigarettes eventually leaked its toxicity into me as my only refuge to cope with his constant aggression towards Thomas.. As long as I have known Troy, I have known him to be unemployed, living off of delivery pizza funded by Thomas. It was an inscrutable income, I realized— as they both were unemployed, save for the small venues and house shows they occasionally performed.
You would never have guessed that Thomas and Troy are brothers. Troy was large, round, and pale skinned with piercing blue eyes. Thomas, bi-racial and smaller, had a large gap between his teeth making his smile infectious and unforgettable. An unlikely bond which one would claim was born from love, while the other shared whispered secrets of feeling possessed.
As we continued to ramble through the tiny ghost town, I felt a sensation that would subconsciously become a familiar signal for me to give the brothers space. At the start of the trip, Troy would periodically and abruptly demand some privacy with Thomas. But as the miles we traveled together grew, I learned to pick up on the clues: a wrinkled brow, a rouged complexion, an exchange in characteristics; when Thomas would be teeming with energy and for once, Troy would be moody and silent. I follow the cue and head back towards the gas station alone.
Once I get back to the boarded windows, I decide on one last view and began to warily scale the side of the gas station building. In the distance, a freight train passes below the speckled mountain range. The sounds of its steady chugging and far-off whistle renders a calmness I try to hold on to. As the train moves out of sight, I survey the towns ruins for the last time.
Below, I spot Troy and Thomas walking along. Troy, unaware of my gaze, raises his fist and hits Thomas hard in the face. Neither I nor Thomas flinch in this moment as he reels backwards from the blow and then continues walking alongside Troy, unfazed. A silence echoes across the desert plains reverberating a familiar numbness that often follows the harsh realities of what we have been taught is love.
I make my way back down the building, my body sulking with an invisible weight. My thigh catches on a protruding metal shingle. A stinging trail of blood trickles down my leg and marks the path towards the van, where I await the brothers, and prepare myself for the coming miles, the fading of this town and everything through the rearview mirror.
Creative Non-Fiction Essay Travel