Barstow: The Art of Looking Away

Barstow, California was the kind of place where even the breeze felt like giving up. The air smelled like nothing. Barstow was dry air, hot wind, and dust that stuck to your skin. People said you got used to it. They said everything here was something you got used to.

Brittany walked down Main Street that morning, passing the Barstow Mall. It was still standing and still mostly empty. Still pretending to be a mall. The parking lot was cracked and sun-bleached, but the signs were all intact, like they were waiting for a crowd that would never come.

A man slept in front of the old 99 Cents Only Store, curled around a shopping cart filled with random pieces of his life. He was using a dirty SpongeBob plush as a pillow. Someone had left a bottle of water beside him. The water was cloudy. Barstow water always was. People said it was "just minerals." They didn't mention the time rocket fuel chemicals were found in the groundwater years ago. Everyone remembered, but they all pretended they didn't. Parents still filled cups of cloudy tap water for their pets and children to drink. "Just set in on the counter for a few minutes, it'll clear up." They'd say with a chuckle. An inside joke that only the residents of the dilapidated city found humorous.

Inside Circle K, the cashier was arguing with the lottery machine again. It beeped in long, defeated tones.

"Morning," Brittany said.

The cashier smacked the machine. "It's doing the thing again." he said.

"It always does that."

"Yeah," he replied, as if that explained everything.

A woman in line behind Brittany scrolled through Facebook. "Another one," she said, turning her phone so her friend could see the blurry photo of someone laid out on Windy Pass with a needle poking out of their arm. The comments were arguing about whether or not it was the same guy from last month.

"Shame," her friend said.

"Yeah," the woman agreed from behind too heavy lashes, already scrolling to a post about someone's lost pit bull.

Brittany paid for her soda and stepped outside. The man by the 99 Cents store hadn't moved. A couple of teenagers were taking selfies with him, posing like he was part of the scenery. One of them was pretending to faint dramatically. They laughed and walked off, one of them kicking his SpongeBob plush out from underneath him. He still didn't budge.

On her way home, Brittany passed Crestline Elementary, the school she'd gone to as a kid. The playground fence was bent inward like something had pushed through it. The swings creaked even though the hot air was dead still. A man in a reflective vest was patching a hole in the sidewalk nearby.

A woman walked by pushing a stroller. The baby inside was chewing on an old plastic spoon. The man brushed sweat from his forehead.

"Already hot today." he said to no one in particular.

"Always is." Brittany smiled, taking a swig of her Cactus Cooler.

A distant sonic boom cracked across the sky, one of the artillery tests from Fort Irwin. The ground trembled just enough to notice but no one reacted. Not even the baby.

At home, Brittany's mom was sitting at the table with a Desert Dispatch spread open in front of her face. "Another heat advisory." she said through puffs of her Marlboro Red. "They say stay inside if you can." The TV was blaring and the news anchor on the screen smiled too widely, the way people do when they're trying to distract from something behind them.

"It's February." Brittany grumbled.

Her mom nodded, turning her attention to the creepy news anchor. "Yep." she said."

On the screen, the anchor had moved on to yet another story about Barstow's water supply. More mentions of "cloudiness" and "harmless mineral deposits," the same phrases they always used. They didn't really bring up Hinkley or Erin Brockovich anymore. That was old news and nothing worth talking about.

A photo of a little boy had filled the screen. The same one they'd been talking about for six months. They showed the same photo at least three times a week. They said the community was hopeful. They always said that. One quick glance at the Watchdog website would probably shatter whatever hope the community pretended to have.

That evening, Brittany walked to the Shell station on Main for a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetohs. The sun was setting behind the freeway, turning the sky a bruised purple. A police car was parked outside, lights flashing lazily. An officer stood beside a man sitting on the curb with his hands cuffed behind him. The man was crying softly. He looked up. His eyes were red. "I didn't..." he started, but the officer nudged him gently with a knee.

Inside the station, the clerk was sweeping up broken glass. A shelf had collapsed and Monster drinks were still rolling across the wet floor.

"Busy day?" Brittany asked.

"Not really." the clerk said. "Just one of those things."

She bought her chips and left. The officer and the crying man were already gone. The police car was still there, lights off now. The ground rumbled again with another sonic boom.

Brittany walked to Del Taco on First Avenue, the original Del Taco. The one everyone bragged about like it was a national monument. This place was treated like a shrine in Barstow. The neon sign buzzed faintly. Inside, the workers moved with the slow and practiced rhythm of people who had seen everything and reacted to nothing.

She ordered a Barstow taco with a cup of fries and sat by the window. Outside, a woman yelled at someone who wasn't there and teenagers were skateboarding in the parking lot, weaving around a man passed out on the curb.

Brittany unwrapped her Barstow taco. This taco tasted different from every other Del Taco anywhere else and was the city's one flawless accomplishment. She took a bite. It tasted exactly the same as it always had. The familiar mix of seasoned beef, shredded lettuce and cheese topped with a tomato slice gave her a rare sense of steadiness.

Outside, the skateboarders had seemed to find something better to do but the man they'd been skating around still laid on the curb with his legs stretched out. There were a few small baggies scattered around him like they'd spilled from his pocket. No one stopped or stared. A couple walked over him carrying a Fiesta Pack like it was any other evening.

Brittany dipped her fry into Del Scorcho, letting the heat bloom on her tongue. For that small moment, she felt something close to happiness. Not the kind that fixes anything, just that small stubborn spark that comes from eating the one thing her city got right.

That night, she laid in her bed listening to the sounds outside. She could hear bass bumping from the house next door and someone shouting near Stater Bros.

She thought about the man with his SpongeBob plushie. The bent fence. the crying man on the curb. the cloudy water.

She thought about how everyone agreed these things were normal. How they never even looked twice.

She thought about how easy it was to agree.

She closed her eyes.

Outside, another sonic boom rolled across the Mojave Desert. And in Barstow, that meant everything was fine.