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A chilly arid night layed afoot, the lack of flora in Albuquerque during the colder months is apparent. The desolate ambiance only furthers my discontent; I feel that I took this trip down south rather impulsively. Not a far cry from my other grand decisions I’ve made in the blink of an eye. Like the time I decided against higher-education since I had been too preoccupied with my own occupations, and valued them over any semblance of a respectable adulthood. Never once asking myself, what will become of my life if I have no direction. Some people in this world are blessed with the gift of understanding. They recognize their talents (or lack thereof), and aim their sights accordingly. A person gifted in mathematics may choose to be an accountant or a physicist; a person who is nurturing and pays keen attention to detail would serve well as a nurse, doctor, or even veterinarian! Where do I fall onto this scale? I fear I do not.
I’ve always loved to make art, sketching little skits whenever a pencil and paper were present. It was nice to create a little world in my head, a planetesimal in which nothing is beyond my control. My head enjoys its comfy home in the clouds, but my wallet sure doesn’t. I told myself that I’d fly down to Albuquerque to get away from the hustle and bustle of the north, but my thoughts still swirl tumultuously through my mind, reaping meaningless havoc. I sit on a small concrete ledge as I wait for something to stir my mind with inspiration. Please, don’t let this be another week wasted, I need to find some sort of purpose in this wintry purgatory so I don’t drive myself to madness. The problem being, only so much goes on at a motel parking lot once the sun sets. The concrete is poking at my boney butt, and the chill nips me a bit more harshly than before. Perhaps it’s time to go back inside, and lament with myself within the confines of my humble room for the night.
As I shift my weight onto my knees to force my cold-stricken joints to move, I hear something. Whispering…but where? I stand, and make my way through the parking lot. At the end of the lot was a sunken outskirt, containing not much but sparsely laid out trees—and a dim light? I don’t recall trees from New Mexico to be glow in the dark…again starts the whispering, but now in my closer proximity, I realize whoever is speaking is doing so in a normal tone. But I still can’t make out what is going on. So logically, I find myself slowly embarking on my own little journey down to the lower elevations of the striated sandstone. It’s not a difficult hike down, though perhaps I should be a little more cautious of how I’ll eventually make my ascent. But, that’s later of course. Right now, I’m busy—busying myself with other people’s business no doubt.
As the sandstone steepens, I stop in my tracks seeing that it would be near impossible to get back up to the motel if I were to descend further. Holding my breath, I put a hand to my ear and listen tentatively to whatever the hell is going on down there. Better be worth the trek.
“I reckon we’ll be parting ways now, seeing as our transaction is done and over with.” Announces a very southern voice, akin to Yosemite Sam. I lower my hand from my ear, and turn my attention to the person the voice is coming from. Oh wow, there’s actually a couple people down there! All dressed in their flamboyant cowboy-esque hats, I think there’s about six men in total. One stands out though, he isn’t wearing any motif that screams New Mexico. In fact, he’s dressed rather plainly in comparison to the other, a dark navy jean jacket accompanied with lackluster pantalones. It’s interesting to think that back at home in Massachusetts, he would fit right in, no problem. I suppose we all belong somewhere in some stringent way, perhaps he’s a businessman from abroad, doing whatever it is that businessmen do. I wasn’t aware that they met at these late hours of the night.
“Yes, I reckon.” says the out of place man dryly, perhaps with a slight twinge of irony in his tone? Was he mocking their southern drawl? A bit unprofessional for a business man, but the other men don’t seem to pick up on it. They turn their backs, and head to the trucks I assume belong to them. The glimmer of their silver laced boots as they continued forward, ever so enunciated in the moonlight. Maybe this wasn’t a waste of time after all—I want to draw some really fancy cowboy boots!
I look up to see the best path to ascend upon, seeing as I’m not too fond of the idea of falling into the cavern of mysterious men. Suddenly, a noise rips through the serene desert and ricochets off of the sandstone walls. The sound of a gunshot? No, it sounded too muffled for that…maybe someone crashed into something? The menacing phut echoes through the air four more times, successively. I get this tense notion in my gut that tells me not to look down; to just go back to the motel and disregard what goes bump in the night. To return to normalcy, and sleep soundly on the dense, worn mattress with the reminisce of tobacco smoke lulling me to sleep. That would be nice, yeah. But god, I really want to see what the fuck is going on down there. I take a final glance at the scene below, a scene which has drastically altered from a literal minute ago.
The five men are now lying face down (or up…it’s hard to tell), with small pools of crimson leaking from their craniums. Blood staining their well-kept garments, their fancy hats now scattered across the terrain. I freeze for a moment, it’s difficult to process the events that just transpired while my back was briefly turned. I stare down, but I can’t see anything. Not in the literal sense, I just need a second to clear my mind—what am I saying, I need to get out of here! My wits at last return to me…a smidge too late. When my eyes focus, I see the last man standing gaze intently in my direction. His weapon, a shotgun of sorts, seems to be enjoying the same view. Shit, shit, SHIT!
I shift my weight on my right leg to climb as far up as I can, when I realize far too late that the little ledge that supported my weight, could only hold for so long. The ledge dislodges from its conglomerate, and for a split moment, my world stills. All of the worries that previously ran amuck quieted, and I embrace this fleeting moment of silence—before I tumble down. I try in vain to grasp onto any branches to soften my fall, but to no avail. I hit the stone terrain with a thud, and maybe a small crack or two. A wave of inscrutable pain engulfs me on my left side of my ribcage. I squeeze my eyes tightly, hoping selfishly that this was all a dream, that I didn’t take the last bite that I just couldn’t chew. Hot tears make their way down my cheek as I fight the urge to release the inhuman shriek building up in my diaphragm. I rub my eyes, drying my tears so that I could prepare my eyes to behold whatever laid in front of me.
A pair of brown leather, pointy-toed boots meet my gaze. I croon my neck in the least agonizing position to look up at the owners of these pristine shoes. The man bears a haircut resembling the beatles, it would be a bit more comedic if I were not on the verge of losing consciousness. His face is stoic, deep brown eyes laden with dark bags below. His expression is akin to a Boxer-mutt left in a dog fighting ring for far too long, though he doesn’t bare many physical scars on his face, it’s apparent that he’s seen some shit. Shit that made him into the man he is today, a man that in a blink of an eye, murdered five men as if it were a routine chore. I gulp, and anticipate the man’s actions, seeing as my chances of escaping are rather non-existent.
“What business do you have here?” states the man, his voice deep and commanding. His tone is free of any vocal jumps, he is completely flat and cold. This frightens me, and I could sense some more tears well up in the corners of my eyes as I maintained eye contact for what seemed like an eternity.
“I’m— I don’t have any business here.” I managed to croak out before my voice receded into shrill sobs. I maneuver my neck back to its submissive position. Mentally, I don’t feel the gravity of this situation quite yet, but my body sure as hell does. Between the involuntary sobbing and the fact that my arms are too wobbly to even attempt to push myself up, my body lays petrified. I jolt when a cold metal brushes my temple. The barrel of the make-shift shotgun.
I manage out a soft “please” as I try my best to steady the heaving in my chest. I hear the gravel on the floor shift as the man crouches down to me. I dare not look.
“ Please, don’t kill me . Is that what you were going to say?” His irony truly gleams with his oxy-moronic disclosure. He says this line as if he’s heard it uttered a million times. I lift my head. His lips give a slight curl to the edges, he seems content with the position he is in. Holding a lethal weapon to my head, ah yes, this is what he likes. I’m screwed.
“Maybe it was…” I admit feebly in a hushed voice, silently praying that I could disappear in this instance, and retreat to the comforts of the life I lead just a few minutes prior. This guy is clearly some sort of masochistic sadist, his eyes greedily exert the pure power he holds over me, and lavishes in the moments of my despair. My mind turns a different way for a moment. Maybe, I could weasel my way out of this. Sweet talk! Yeah, I’m definitely going to think of a killer punchline with death looming in my body and outside of it.
“What would you like me to say?”
There's a slight pause, I hear the howl of a coyote in the far, far distance. I wonder if the poor animal will meet the same fate as I, under the microscopic lense of this crazed man.
“What would I like you to say?” repeats the man slowly, slightly raising his left eyebrow, before quickly lowering it.
“What would you like me to say, so that you won’t massacre me like the others?”
“You think this is a massacre?” Responds the man in a questionable tone, I’m unable to discern if he is joking or not. He has an oddly soft way of speaking, considering the behemoth of a man that he is. His mass was evident in his well fit clothing, he clearly wasn’t missing any meals. Though he wasn’t quite chubby either, I could see toned areas if my eyes wandered long enough…
He hums impatiently, while clicking his tongue as if he is scolding a schoolboy for stealing a pack of gum at the convenience store. The barrel leaned on my temple, and I could tell from the gleam in his trigger-happy eyes, that my time may very well be up.
“I might be inclined to think that…you killed them all with no discretion.”
“And if I shoot you now, I will be massacaring you?”
“I think that’s how that works.”
Another still scene befalls the once serene outskirts. The tumbleweeds have all ran away, not even the coyotes dare scream out. The tension weighed them all down, just me. I thoughtlessly peer into the man’s eyes again, seeing nothing promising for me within their reflection. He wanted something primal, to assuage his bloodlust in this easy prey.
“I think…that in order to massacre you like I did the other men, I must do so brutally.”
I shudder.
“Why is that?”
Another unreadable expression makes its way across his face. Its discernibility is eerie enough as it is, without his eyes staring straight into my very being.
“Well, there is only one of you.”
I wait patiently for some sort of adrenaline rush to hit my system. Patiently biding time before my body springs into animation once more, and makes a run for it. Perhaps I’d even throw some sediments into his eyes, blinding him for just enough time for me to escape. But the adrenaline never hits me. My bones ache far too much for me to make a rash movement. The man engulfing the atmosphere seems to know that as well as I do. I metaphorically scratch my head in thought, or whatever you call the manifestations of my delirious state. What to say, what to say…
“Is there any other way?” I ask meekly, hoping to garner any sort of sympathy, though I have an inclination that he may lack any empathetic capability.
“Any other way for me to massacre you?” That low voice, nearing a whisper, comforts me in a fashion I myself do not completely understand. He speaks as if he is reading a bedtime story to a child. I wonder if he gave his previous victims the same treatment. I wonder if any people in a similar position as I, ever saw the light of day after an encounter with this man. He embodies more than death, and if I didn’t want to scream at each throbbing wave of pain at my side, perhaps I could find the words to describe him.
“No—“
“No?” His eyes narrow, and his expression is readable now. It says; are you not complying?
“—I meant, I’m sorry.” I gulp down a knot in my throat to try and get my point across, but I can tell by the look of him, that his dwindling patience was reaching its end.
“Is there a way I can get out of this situation alive?” My last ditch effort, here are my pitiful cards, laid out on the table for you, mysterious man. I don’t have any turns left, so why hide my motives? I’d like to die with my cards face up on the table, at the very least. I feel that so much of my life was squandered by inauthenticity. At least, at this moment, I know this man’s words are true. If he is set to kill me, he will do so. I lay quietly on the stones beneath, the cool touch of it slightly aiding in thwarting some of the pain, but not all.
At this, the man reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a slightly rusted quarter. It looks almost like a tiny moon, either that or my vision is waning out. I struggle to make out the face he is making, something about him seems almost prideful in this coin. What is he getting at?
“Call it.”
Call it? The coin? Holy shit, is my life resting upon the face of a fucking quarter? That's ludicrous, but an admittingly well-suited metaphor for my situation. For the life that I’ve led. All a game of chance, and this game has led me, potentially, to my untimely demise. Fuck it.
“Tails.”
With one swift movement, the coin is suspended into the air. It coils inadvertently, until landing back into the index and middle finger of its holder. He places it on his lap, and reveals it to himself.
He takes the shotgun off of my forehead, I let out a short lived sigh of relief, before I am holstered above the ground, and slugged over his shoulder. My ribs shift uncomfortably, and I resist the urge to cry out. Each step he takes moves the bruised bones out of their comfort zone, I bear it to the best of my ability. I don’t want to call any attention to myself. I’d like to forget I exist, just for a little while. He gingerly places me in the passenger seat of his aged red chevy coupe, and shuts the door of the car. Shortly after, he climbs into the driver’s seat, switches on the ignition, and begins to make his way back to the roads. I think the coin landed tails-up, I doubt I’d be alive if that weren't the case. But…where exactly is he taking me? Why didn’t he leave me down at the outskirts, where he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever comes with taking a random 20-something year old woman along with him? I’d love to make more sense of this man, this man; the realization hits, I don’t even know his name!
The roads ahead are just as quiet as the rest of its surroundings, not a car in sight. Unsurprising for the time of night, I’m assuming it’s very early in the morning, maybe 2 or 3 am. The car itself is silent, besides the rumbling of the engine of course. The radio is off, but I kind of like it that way. I’m too overstimulated for anything more than this quiet drive, alone with the unnamed man and my fraying thoughts.
“Who are you?” I ask, treading carefully on the newly established sense of calm that emanated from the man.
“Who am I?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?” He seems to have a knack for answering questions with questions. I would’ve considered this to be annoying coming from any other person, but his little back and forth intrigued me.
“My name is Alice Gutiérrez.”
“No.”
I give him a confused look. Am I not Alice?
“I asked, who are you?” Jesus, I don’t know if I can handle an existential crisis on top of falling from a small cliff, being held at gunpoint, and being plopped into the car of the guy who caused this mess in the first place. A small seed of doubt plants itself promptly in my scalp, what if I was the one who messed up? Why couldn’t I just mind my business, and go back to Massachusetts to fulfill whatever destiny had in store? Maybe the truth is I never saw any foreseeable future there, and conceivably put myself in vulnerable positions to escape this plane of existence.
“I don’t know who I am.”
“Is that so?” He says, almost pleased with the answer. I wonder why. The conversation dies there, as I lack the cognitive ability in my pain-ridden, sleep-lacked state that I was in. I turn to the side of the car and try to get as comfortable as I can before shutting my eyes in hopes of a dreamless sleep. Just as I am about to be swept under by the sweet embrace of rest, the man speaks:
“My name is Anton, Anton Chigurh.”