The only sound I could hear was my boots scraping across the desert.
I saw him. He looked young, maybe 19.
“Hey buddy,” I called. “Let me catch up with you”
And he let me.
“The days don’t get any cooler,” I said.
“It’s the desert,” he replied. “That’s how it’s advertised.”
But he let me walk on with him.
He was headed to Midland, he said.
I told him I was going to Waynoka. “Ever been there?”
“I don’t get out much,” Midland mumbled.
He was a cook at a diner. Hot Chilly Bowl. Going to the grocery to get some more chuck.
Across the desert.
I asked if he was getting beans too. He got angry.
“NEVER! You never make Texas chilli with beans. EVER!”
He was upset but he gave a tutorial.
“You cut up the chuck into nice pieces, fry them in beef suet, pour in a little water, then the anchos, then . . .”
Then he forgot the rest of the recipe.
“Damn, I made my chilli a thousand times. Can’t believe I forgot the other ingredients.”
We kept walking. I talked about my wife. My Shreveport darling.
I didn’t want to offend Midland, but I talked long about her red beans and rice.
He was thinking about something.
“I pulled a knife on my boss. He said I was a mess of a cook.”
Walking across the desert to get more chuck at the store was his act of penance.
“I’ll bring the meat back to the diner, cook a pot of chilli nice n’ neat, get my old job back.”
And then he remembered the rest of the ingredients, screaming them to the sky.
“Oregano! Cumin seeds! Tablespoons of salt! Cayenne! Tabasco!”
“Private!” I yelled.
Midland: “What did you call me?”
“Private Foster. I’m your sergeant. You’re not near Midland. You’re in Iraq.”
“What?”
“You walked off the base. They sent me to find you.”
“I gotta get the chuck. Get back to the diner.”
“I’ll get you there. I’ll even pay for the chuck.”
“Back to Midland? Back to the diner?”
“Come on. You gotta walk with me.”
“I just want to get back to the diner.”
I said, “I’ll get you there.”
To the grocery store.
The diner.
Midland.
Let’s go.”
That sound of our boots on the sand as we turned around, headed for home.
Robert Nersesian attended the Yale Drama School and NYU School of Business. His essays have appeared in The New York Times and The Washington Post; short stories in Ararat Magazine; poetry in Poetica Review; and reviews in The New York Journal of Books. He lives in Washington, DC.
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