Sun-soaked and desolate and gorgeous place.
I took a long walk down the access road to what you might call Metropolitan Van Horn. Lots of burnt-out trailers and houses, and sun-bleached old signs for laundromats and beauty salons. There was a folk-art dude’s place; he does copies of Van Goghs and ersatz Van-Gogh-style portraits, the subjects with long warped faces.
I ate my yearly dose of McDonalds.
We had this old shitty guitar sitting on the bus; its neck had a long diagonal crack. We took it out to the access road right before midnight, when the bus was due for the overdrive to Tucson, and took turns trying to smash it on the asphalt. We each put in a buck, the guy who got the neck to split from the body got the $5 pot.
Nobody succeeded in splitting the neck off, but we beat the shit out of the thing. Somebody called the police, and a state trooper’s Crown Vic cruiser crept up on us with the lights out.
The cop looked about 19, with rosy cheeks. “What are you guys doing?”
“We’re smashing a guitar,” I said.