I wanted a rattlesnake to bite me.

I always did as I trekked my way along the sagebrush on Interstate 80. I didn’t want to die exactly—or maybe I did. It didn’t matter really. I just wanted a rattlesnake to strike from the shadows of a dry bush and pierce my skin with its venomous fangs. I wanted to feel the fear of knowing I could die. I wanted to feel the pain as the lethal injection sizzled through my veins. I simply wanted to feel something. Anything at all.

I wanted to look Mother Nature straight in the eyes and say “fuck you” as I struggled for each breath. I wanted to fight the battle of survival, walking along the edge of life and dark oblivion. I wanted to feel toxins, poison, death. All for one reason.

I was bored. So very bored.

Every day, beneath the Nevadan desert sun, I would walk the same path. I’d kick the sage with my worn Converse-covered feet in hopes I would wake a rattler from its slumber. For years, I did this ritual. For years, I remained bite free. I couldn’t even have that excitement in my life. I was destined for boring. Fated for a life of nothing but tedious existence.

And today was no different as I walked to my place of employment, grateful for the breeze in the air caused by the cars and large semi-trucks zooming by me at ninety miles an hour. The speed limit was seventy, but I couldn’t blame a single soul for wanting to race through my piece of shit town. If you could even call Muckaluk a town. I think the truckers saw it as exit 222, mile marker 51. That was all it really was. A mile marker. A mile marker in Humboldt County near Coal Canyon. This was my home. This was my hell.

Dust devils and sagebrush.

Rain clouds always in the distance promising showers that never came. Broken promises all my life.

I lived in a singlewide trailer that had been owned by my meemaw and pappy before they died. They were too poor to even afford a spot in a trailer park, so the trailer was dumped underneath a pine tree behind a long-abandoned gas station that no longer had any glass in the windows and had most of the roof missing due to neglect. Meemaw used to tell me that as long as we had the electricity and sewer bills paid, we were living in the lap of luxury. Though many months growing up, we did not live in that so-called luxury she spoke of. Even when we did have our bills caught up, we were then lucky if we had enough food to survive on. My grandparents’ disability checks barely gave us what we needed.

So, I was grateful when one of the few residents of exit 222, mile marker 51 who actually owned a house was in need of a caregiver and housekeeper. I jumped on that opportunity at the age of fifteen, lying to good ol’ Virgie Peterson that I was indeed sixteen and old enough to hold the job. Luckily, she had hired me six years ago. Luckily, I had a way to take care of my grandparents financially as first Pappy died, and then followed closely by Meemaw only six months later. So, I guess I should have considered myself lucky. And I tried to be grateful every single day because my meemaw had taught me to always find one good thing in your day even if you felt it had turned out to be total shit.

Today I was grateful that rattlesnakes lived under sagebrush.

Come out, come out, wherever you are...

Another semi raced by me—too close to where I walked—scaring away all the rattlesnakes. Fucker. This truck had a license plate revealing it was traveling from Vermont. Such a long drive to enter the depths of Hades. I wondered if the driver had even noticed me kicking bushes along the highway as I walked toward an old Victorian house that sat out in the middle of nothing but desert scrub brush with the interstate a few feet from the front porch. Or did my brown hair blend in with the dirt all around me? Did my small frame look no bigger than the signs that gave the numbers of miles until the next big town? The next town worth going to… if there were such a town in the state of Nevada. And if the trucker did notice me, why didn’t he stop? Was I scary? Sad? Pathetic? Maybe I reminded him of all the failures in his own life. Maybe stopping to ask me if I needed a ride would somehow open the doors to heartache he would rather leave behind. Maybe I was seen as an apparition. The ghost of nothing. That was me. Nothing.

I’d once tried to hitchhike when I was thirteen with no destination in mind. My meemaw got wind of it and spanked me with a carpet beater for doing so.

“Your restless soul will get you killed,” she had said between stinging swats.

Though I didn’t like upsetting my grandmother, I didn’t really mind the punishment. I liked the pain in a way. Maybe that was when my fascination with being bit by a snake began.

Who knows…

And though I never tried to hitchhike again, I was never able to settle my soul like the other people who lived along the interstate had. My soul screamed for release. It hollered and pounded from deep within, begging for mercy. Exit 222, mile marker 51 was killing what was left of my soul, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“You walk too close to the road,” Virgie called from her porch. She was sitting on an old rusted porch swing like she did every morning awaiting my arrival. And every day she greeted me with the same chastisement.

“And you shouldn’t be out here breathing all the diesel fumes from the traffic,” I countered as I had done every single day for the last six years. We were like an old vinyl record set on repeat. A record playing in a damn insane asylum where there was no escape, and we had no choice but to muddle through our drug-induced lives.

“And you should wear a hat. Protect that pretty face of yours,” she added as I walked up the five steps in need of repair. “Take it from me. I once was pretty like you. Now look at me. I’m a dried up raisin.” She put out her wrinkled and frail hand in front of her and examined it. “I even used all those fancy hand creams in my youth.” She snorted. “Lots of good those did me.”

I sat down beside her, ignoring the loud creak of the rusty hinges on the swing. Someday it would crash beneath us, but for today it held. “You’re still very pretty.” I took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “You may be dry, but what do you expect when you live your life as a desert rat?”

“Is that what we are? Rats?” she asked as she stared at the steady stream of cars driving by.

“We could be worse.”

“Worse? Than rats?”

I smiled. I loved the bizarre conversations this woman and I could engage in. “I better get to work. I want to get out of here by three. I have an appointment with Roy.”

Virgie released my hand and slapped the top of my thigh. “Girl, you don’t need anymore tattoos! You have more than enough. You almost have no skin left to cover.”

“You can never have enough tattoos. I still have plenty of empty skin.”

“Your entire arm is covered. I would say that is enough. Please tell me you aren’t planning on doing the other one too.”

I was. But not yet. I still had to finish my back and the tattoo that ran over my ass and thigh. Virgie didn’t truly grasp how many tattoos I had since she never saw my back, my right butt cheek, or my upper thigh. When I was done, I planned on having my entire right side tatted. I wanted the entire right side of me to appear as if I had been dipped in multicolor ink. My soul was gray, but my spirit was not… These tattoos were my only way to keep some color in my life.

“I thought you liked the flowers I did on my shoulder,” I pointed out.

Virgie shrugged. “I did. I do. I just don’t know why you put yourself through the pain, and why you mark your pretty skin.”

“It doesn’t really hurt.”

I wished it hurt more.

“Needles going into your skin hurts.” She pushed the swing back with her feet, rocking us back and forth. “And Roy stinks.”

I snickered. “He does.”

Roy was an old biker and about as cliché as one could be on what a biker dude would look like. Long gray hair with matching beard that almost hung down to his oversized belly. He always wore an old Harley tee or a shirt that he had collected at a biker street fair in Reno called Street Vibrations. His favorite thing was to cut off the sleeves and make a homemade tank top. It always showed off his armpit hair that also was gray like his beard. And he stunk like B.O. and gasoline. I didn’t mind the smell really. I had gotten used it. Roy treated me well and was really quite talented. But the best thing about Roy is he would tattoo my body for a six-pack of Pap’s Beer and twenty bucks for the ink. I think he liked my company, and maybe liked the peek he got of my ass or another part of my body. But he was harmless. I liked him and all the stories he told of his biker gang days. He was a bad ass who somewhere along the line lost his way. He never told me how he ended up at exit 222, mile marker 51, but no one really did. Maybe the story was too sad. Maybe it was too dark. Maybe they just didn’t care. It happened, so all they could do was accept their shitty fate.

Virgie stood up, taking a few moments to make sure her knees wouldn’t buckle beneath her before she started to walk. “You are too damn pretty to be hiding behind all that ink. It’s nonsense.”

I smiled, knowing this was a topic that Virgie and I would never agree on. “I like them.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“They’re part of me,” I said as I got up and opened the front door for both of us.

Virgie snorted. “Well, you got that right. It’s not like you can wash them off.”

I walked straight to the kitchen and started washing the few dishes in the sink from the night before and morning. I didn’t see any pots or signs of a cooked dinner. “What did you eat last night?” I called out to her as she settled herself into her Lazy Boy chair.

“I wasn’t hungry. I popped some popcorn and watched some movie about a vampire who sparkled. Damn movies these days. What ever happened to Dracula?”

“Virgie,” I said with a sigh as I placed the dishes in the dishwater. “You can’t live off of popcorn. You need more sustenance than that when you take your meds at night.” I looked over my shoulder at her as she reached for her knitting and began working on whatever was her next creation like she did every day, all day. “Did you take your medication last night?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, not looking away from the yarn.

“Why do I not believe you?” I asked as I walked over to the pill containers on the counter. I opened up the weekly medi-set to see if she had, and not only had she not taken last night’s pills, but she hadn’t taken this morning’s. “Virgie, your meds are still in here. You have got to take them. I set them all up for you to try to make it simple, but you have to remember.”

“Oh, I remember. I just don’t feel like it. All those damn medications are going to pickle my insides. I don’t want to be preserved like some armadillo in a taxidermist store. I want to die someday. Those damn doctors want to turn me into a mummy.”

“Yeah, well those damn doctors are going to put you in a nursing home if they think you aren’t taking care of yourself. Elder protective services have already been called once. You want them back out here?” I poured the colored pills in my hand and brought them to where Virgie sat. I handed them to her, reached for her glass of Coke and gave that to her too. “And when is the last time you drank water? You can’t live off of popcorn and Coke, Virgie.”

She took the pills and grumbled, “I don’t see why the hell not. I’m old. I can do whatever I want, and ain’t nobody telling me I have to spend the rest of my days in an old person’s home. This is still a free country, and this house is mine. I will die here no matter what some suit-wearing biddy says from the state.”

“Well, I would like to keep you around.” I gave her a wink. “I don’t want to have to find another job.”

She smiled. “You shouldn’t be here taking care of my old bag of bones.”

“Yeah, well, last I checked, there weren’t a lot of jobs floating around Muckaluk.” I patted her shoulder playfully and then walked back into the kitchen to continue cleaning.

“I’m serious,” she said while she continued to knit. “You need to get out of this town.”

“Well, unless a dust devil sweeps me away, I don’t exactly see that happening anytime soon.”

“You should go to New Orleans. I always loved living in New Orleans.”

I scrubbed away, waiting for her to tell me the same stories she always repeated about her days living on Bourbon Street until she met her husband. She had thought she would someday become a famous blues singer. From all her stories, it had sounded like she had made a pretty good living doing so.

“I don’t sing the blues, Virgie.”

“Well, the waitresses at those joints made good money too. Sometimes better money than I did.”

I continued to clean the kitchen, preparing to listen to her ramble like any other day, but then her talking ceased which instantly had me freezing and walking over to her to check if everything was all right.

“Virgie? What’s wrong?” She was staring at me in silence, appearing lost in thought. She didn’t say anything but just stared at me—actually through me as if her mind had gone off in a different direction. “Virgie?”

After several moments, long enough that I wondered if she was having a stroke or something, she finally spoke. “You do need to leave. And you do need to go to New Orleans.”

I patted her leg and stood upright to get back to work.

“I’m serious, Anita. You do. In fact, the boarding house that I rented a room in is still there. The owner became a dear friend of mine. She passed several years ago, but her daughter took over the business. I’m not sure if she is running it the same, but we should check. You could rent out a room and find a job in New Orleans. You could, and you should.”

“See what happens when you don’t take your medications? You start talking like a mad woman.” I shook my head and walked back to the kitchen.

“Hush now, and listen to me.” I heard the squeak of the Lazy Boy chair as Virgie got out of it and shuffled her slippered feet to me in the kitchen which was something she had never done before. All our conversations were done either on the porch swing or by her chair. Virgie wasn’t exactly an active and mobile person. “This place is eating you up. Your meemaw and pappy are gone, and there is nothing keeping you here.”

“You are here.”

“Again, shut your mouth and listen to me. That nurse is scheduled to come see me several times a week now.”

“You hate that nurse,” I countered. “You said she smells like Pine-Sol.”

“Well she does, but that’s not the point. Stop interrupting me,” Virgie scolded as she tapped my lips with her bony finger. “So, as much as I love you, child, I don’t need you. And I’m not going to stand by and let you rot here right alongside of me.”

I chuckled. “And you think I should go to New Orleans?” I rolled my eyes and turned to finish the dishes.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful city and perfect for new beginnings. There are so many places to get a job in those bars until you get your footing. And if you can still rent out a room like I did—”

“It’s a nice sounding dream,” I mumbled.

Virgie clapped her hands and walked over to the phone hanging on the wall. She was old school and didn’t believe in giving up her landline and relying on a cell phone. Underneath the phone was her station of papers, pens, and her address book. “I’m going to find that number. I will bet money that my friend’s daughter is still running that house as an apartment building rather than a large house. She was such a sweet girl, and still sends me a Christmas card every year in honor of her mother. She knew her mother always did and wanted to keep that up. Love that child,” Virgie said, more to herself than to me as she flipped through her address book. Clearly finding the number, she picked up the phone and started dialing. “Let’s hope she’s there.”

I shook my head and reached for the Windex to clean the counters as I tried to not pay attention to Virgie talking on the telephone. I suppose I could have eavesdropped to see what was being said, but I decided to collect the garbage and take it out to the dumpster in the side yard instead. Virgie was losing her mind. Like I could just pick up and leave for New Orleans.

Tossing the garbage into the dumpster, I looked toward the horizon seeing storm clouds moving in. It was odd to see thunder boomers forming so early in the day. For a change, the storm may actually make it our way. It was something to look forward to, I supposed. Lightning and thunder to set my backdrop as I had Roy tattoo a string of poppies along my hip.

“Anita!” Virgie called from the house, pulling me from my thoughts. “Come in here. Where are you, child?”

I walked back into the kitchen wondering what crazy idea she wanted to chatter about now.

“I just got off the phone with Marie St. Claire, my friend’s daughter. I was surprised she had never married. I thought for sure her name had changed. A woman of her age and not to be married…” Virgie paused, shook her head, and then continued. “Never mind that. Anyway, she said she is indeed running the boarding house and even has a room available. It shares a bathroom with two other rooms, but she said the tenants are young women and are nice. But the good news is she has a room. She even said the other women living there might be able to find you a job. They all work together at a bar in town.”

“Virgie…”

She raised her hand. “Don’t try to make me sound like a loon. I may be, but I don’t know why I haven’t thought of this before. There is no sound reason why you should stay here. There really isn’t. You have no reason to not go to that piece of shit home of yours, pack a suitcase and get the hell out of Dodge.”

“I can’t just leave for New Orleans. On a moment’s notice? You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? Because you have a tattoo session?” She huffed. “I think stinky Roy can do without you.”

She was serious. Virgie really expected me to move to New Orleans as if it were as simple as going to the grocery store. “When and how exactly do you see this all happening?” Maybe I shouldn’t humor her, but then a part of me was curious as to how she envisioned this all going down.

“Now. You go today. You stay at Marie’s. A single room with no bathroom isn’t ideal for long, but it will be good until you get a paycheck.”

I stopped cleaning and stared at the woman who really did appear and sound serious. “Virgie… I can’t just pick up and move to New Orleans today! Not today or anytime soon. I don’t have the money or the means to just take off. I even have to use your car to get groceries. I don’t have the funds to just pick up and move to another state.”

“Yes, you do because I am giving it to you. Consider it your severance pay. I’m firing your ass.” She smiled so big that her entire face lit up. “You have to be spontaneous in life, Anita. When I was your age, I lived life. Nothing held me back. I have memories that I will forever cherish because I didn’t let fear get in the way of my choices. Sure, not all my decisions were good, and actually many were downright foolish, but at least I lived. You, Anita, need to live. Jump off the cliff, even if it means crashing down below.”

I patted her upper arm. “You aren’t firing me, and you don’t want me to leave. I appreciate you calling your friend and trying to make this happen, but this isn’t in my cards right now. Maybe someday, but not now.”

It was pure insanity is what it was.

“I am dead serious. You are fired, child. And I’m going to give you enough money for a month’s rent, the bus ticket, and some spending money for food and such. But you will have to get a job quickly, which I’m sure you will be able to do. Like I said, Marie said the other women might be able to help with that.”

“I have the trailer and my belongings and—”

“I will look over it. No worries there. And let’s be real, Anita. You aren’t fooling me with this act. You don’t give an ounce of care about that trailer nor the items in it. You’ve told me yourself how you just wished you could pick up and leave with just the clothing on your back.” Virgie walked over to her purse. “Come on. You need to go pack some of your stuff and drive me to Winnemucca so I can get to the bank before they close. You can catch the Greyhound there too.”

“Wait,” I said as Virgie slipped on her shoes that were sitting by the door. This was the fastest I had ever seen the woman move. “You really are serious, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Damn straight I am. You should have done this the minute your meemaw and pappy died. And I should have given you the boot of courage to make it happen. When I was your age, someone did this for me. Consider this as my act of paying it back, and you can do the same for some young woman when you have a chance.”

“Someone paid for you to go to New Orleans to be a singer?”

“Yes, to follow my dreams.”

“I don’t have any dreams,” I argued, feeling a panic attack knocking at my psyche. “I have no dreams to follow.”

Virgie stopped and studied me for several moments with sadness—or pity—in her eyes. “Well, it’s about time you get some. Everyone needs dreams. Not just nightmares.”