via Writer's Almanac

"Small Pleasures" by Greg Pape from American Flamingo

Small Pleasures
Mojave Desert, California

Noon, one hundred fourteen degrees, no breeze
except the breeze we make
going ten miles an hour in the pickup,
no road, just open flat desert, low brush
and scattered rock, the Mojave
somewhere west of Edwards Air Force base.
We're eating our sandwiches, the boss and I,
drinking cups of cold water from the thermos jug
on the seat between us. We carry
three gallons of water for each man
to get us through to four o'clock,
when we head for cold beer at the bar.
He hasn't said anything for some time,
just chews and drinks, chews and drinks,
stares out at the heat waves
as the pickup bumps along. Covered with dust
and oil, we've been out here since five a.m.
working on the road. Now we're leaving
the road behind. Last night, stopped
at a phone booth on the way to the motel,
I watched moths swarm at the light
while he tried to call home, was it?
Something was wrong, bad connection, something.
He got angry, yanked the phone off the cord
and threw it on the ground. He didn't try
to explain, and I didn't ask.
We went to our rooms and slept.
We've finished our lunch and cigarettes.
I look over thinking to say something
about how a day like this makes me appreciate
small pleasures, a little shade, this cushioned
seat, a cold tomato with salt, but his
fifty-year-old eyes are closed, his head
fallen to one side, mouth open, hands
in his lap, no longer steering.
Out here it doesn't seem to matter.