Desert Retreat

We were riding in the back of my boss’s Jeep Cherokee. Carl, my husband, was to my right. My boss, Vince, was up front with his wife, Diane. Vince had invited us along on one of their weekend retreats into the desert.

Carl had groaned that it had just been another way for Vince to jokingly put the moves on me, but I told him that wouldn’t happen with Diane and Carl there. “And who knows? I might finally get a raise.” That was the only thing fueling this trip: the prospect for a bigger paycheck each week.

Carl casually grabbed my hand and rubbed it tenderly as he stared out his window and the monotonous desert landscape beyond. Diane’s open window was moving his shortened hair only a little while her own was flying wildly. I imagined Carl was feeling a few of her hair strands break from the pack. I snickered at the thought and this drew his focus to me. “What?”

I just smiled but shook my head, opting to say nothing.

Vince looked into the rearview mirror at me. “What’s going on back there, you two?”

My smile immediately faded at the sound of his voice raised over the howling air coming through Diane’s window. Carl squeezed my hand once more and I returned the gesture while hoping that he knew I was hating this trip as much as he was.

Vince was the kind of boss who thought he was everyone’s friend. He was overly personal and tended to talk close with everyone. This might’ve been fine, except all the workers in his department were woman. He made casual jokes that qualified as sexual harassment, but because of his charming nature, nobody treated it like a big deal.

Carl thought it was unprofessional of him to behave that way and even threatened to report him. When I asked that he calm down, he almost accused me of being interested. It was a rough bump in our marriage, but I finally convinced him that I had no interest in Vince. His tender hand only helped reaffirm that he believed me, but a part of me wondered if it was a way of showing Vince that I was off limits. At that thought, I couldn’t help but become flushed with anger over the idea that I might be treated like property to be claimed.

Diane looked back at me. “Oh, dearie! My window has chapped your face, Claire!” Her voice was nasally and annoying, further cause to believe that Vince was looking elsewhere for some companionship. I looked at Carl as his face should’ve been more abused by the elements than anyone’s. It wasn’t. “My nails are dry now. I’ll close it for you.”

As the window inched upwards, the wind that was once howling soon became a whistle and then vanished, leaving us four in the Cherokee with the radio barely heard beneath the rumble of the engine. After a few seconds, I picked up the tune and started humming “… and getting’ caught in the rain. If you’re not into yoga…” Before long, Vince was singing out loud and I stopped as the song felt inappropriate.

Vince turned up the radio and, as if it were timed by God himself, the Jeep lurched once he let go of the dial. There was a loud pop outside my door and I knew we had a flat tire. Vince quickly pulled the Cherokee over, killed the engine, and got out to examine the problem. He stood outside my door, looking down, and shaking his head.

Carl opened his door and got out. I slid over to Carl’s side and got out behind him. Diane stayed in the car, blowing on her nails and humming the song once more. Her hair was a mess. Carl walked behind the Jeep and joined Vince in admiring the deflated tire. “Must’ve hit a rock or something,” Vince said while slowly shaking his head. His arms were crossed over his chest as if he expected the tire to eventually decide on fixing itself so he could be on his way.

I knew they would have to get the spare tire so I popped the latch. A suitcase fell out as the door lifted upwards and I cringed when I heard something shatter. Vince and Carl came around to see what had happened. Diane got out of the passenger seat. “Oh no,” said Vince, mildly. “That was probably the Chez Tule.” He shook his head again while crossing his arms. “I was gonna serve that with dinner tonight. It’s an ’84, ya know, Carl?”

I knew Carl didn’t know, but he let on that he was listening, at least. “Great. Sounds tragic. Let’s get that spare.” He reached into the left side of the Cherokee to unwrap the spare tire that our luggage was tightly hugging. He only had to move a few pieces of luggage – without dropping any onto the road – and got it out. A car whooshed by without slowing and Carl insisted that Diane and I stay on the other side of the Jeep.

As they worked, Diane and I stood in silence. The sun baked us and I wished for the moment to end, for the desert to come swirl around me and take me away forever. “You know, I always forget if it’s spelled with one S or two.”

The comment caught me off guard. “What?”

“Desert. I sometimes get it confused with dessert. It makes me feel a little foolish.” I immediately thought about how she was foolish about many things, like her husband, and her choice of nail polish.

But I felt sorry for her, too. “I learned this rhyme as a kid. ‘The desert is under the blazing sun. The letter S: it only has one.’ ”

Diane smiled at me with appreciation and nodded thanks. The spare was put on shortly afterwards and we were on our way, our desert retreat having barely begun.

Word Count: 1,000