Long Drive to Flagstaff

The windows and windshield were covered in glistening dew on Don’s black Silverado 4x4.  His rifle was poised on the rack against the back glass.  As he pulled out of the driveway somewhere north of El Paso anyone behind him could have seen the NRA bumper sticker on his Chevy.  It was just past midnight, but it was a long drive to Flagstaff.

Trips like these happen once in a lifetime and they cause the traveler to miss the desert, the cactus, and the reservation casino signs and ultimately even the mountains.  Mountains can be so alluring as if there is something up there somewhere that would be a splendid place to hide.  If one really goes there they’ll find the recesses of mountains to be brutal and have neither mercy nor forgiveness.  Don missed all of that as his half ton tooled along.  He was lost somewhere on a highway he had ventured down some twenty years ago, drifting between what he knew was reality now and all that should have been.

When he arrived in Flagstaff, Don roamed around until he found the government building that he had driven so far to find.  Once inside he saw the metal placard with all the choices to pick from.  It was like a menu, “Assessors Office, Probation Department, on and on and finally, Morgue, lower level”.  Morgue, Don said the word over and over in his head until it had no meaning.  “Why do they call it the Morgue?”

After descending three flights of stairs, Don waited for a lady to acknowledge him who was obviously busy doing something other than worrying about his arrival.  Finally she asked if she could help him and he stated that he was Donald Morgan.  She said that they had been waiting for him and to follow her. 

There is nothing stranger than following a frail woman in a lavender dress that smells of cheap perfume to a door that actually opens, “The Morgue”.  “Just go on in here, Dr. Reddick is expecting you.”  Don stepped inside and was greeted by a man who walked him over to a wall of stainless steel drawers and he pulled one of them out.  On the drawer table lay a covered body, a human being.  The doctor, without emotion, pulled the sheet back and there lay Mellissa.

Don stared at her for a long time and finally nodded in affirmation.  Dr. Reddick thanked him for coming so far to identify her.  Don just stood there even though it was obvious the doctor wanted to close the drawer again.  Shaking, Don reached in his shirt pocket and drew out a cigarette.  “You can’t smoke in here”, the doctor sterilized the moment.
“Have you figured out what happened” Don stuttered as he put his cigarette away?
“Yes, there are lethal quantities of methamphetamine in her system” Dr. Reddick answered.  Don looked at the girl again and then sputtered, “We had hoped that moving her to Flagstaff and starting college would somehow change her.  I guess that was silly, wasn’t it”? Don was begging for some kind of approval.  Dr. Reddick just stared at him.

Don took a shaking hand and held it near her.  “You can touch her, if you want to”, the doctor offered.  Don placed his fingers on her cold, hard cheek.  In his mind he was touching a cheek that he tucked into bed so many times, so long ago.  It didn’t feel the same.  That soft warm cheek and this one now cold and firm were two different languages that just could not meet in translation. 

“We have pictures, so many pictures of Mel, on our walls.  There are times at the beach, and camping, and birthdays.  When I get back, her Mother will take down one of those photos and rub her fingers across the glass and it will be icy just like what I feel now”, Don was sobbing and breaking.  “I’m not a counselor Mr. Morgan”, the doctor asserted.

Don stumbled back out into the daylight and used his truck to hold himself up.  Tears streamed down the hood splattering onto the pavement. He wanted to touch Mel.  He wanted to scream at her.  He wanted to beg her one more time to turn her life around.  He wanted to just hold her.  He looked at his hand thinking about how cold her cheek was and that it would never be warm again.  Across the street was a tavern, he staggered over to it and sat down.  He spilled salt all over the bar and spelled out, ‘Mel’ with his fingers.  Donald Morgan had driven a long way to confirm the hollow and blackest eclipse of any sun he had ever viewed, he quietly ordered a Coors Light.  The bartender offered, “You look like you’ve had a really hard day, nothing that a frosty mug and some Rocky Mountain refreshment won’t cure.”  Noticing the salt poured all over the bar he added, “Mel is someone really important to you, isn’t she?”  Don didn’t answer, he just traced his finger through Mel’s name in the salt one last time. 

From:  We Don’t Do Covers 2009