FIRE FLATS

by Paul Andrews

It promised to be another lazy day at Red's Service Station. At least one vehicle a day typically stopped on weekdays, two on weekends. Most cars contained lost drivers who wandered too far off the Interstate 15, asking for directions to any place but there. Ever since they built the interstate through the middle of Utah in the 1970's, there was not much reason to visit Fire Flats.

Like much of the desert southwest, the town lived up to its name. The view from Red's chair was flat, dry, and blazingly hot. The nearest mountains were over a hundred miles away, not even visible on the horizon. Waves of intense heat rippled off the desert floor, distorting a perpetually blurry view. The average daytime temperatures in the summer could reach a blistering 120 degrees, 110 in the shade. Nothing much grew out here other than sagebrush and cactus. Scorpions and snakes were the masters of the food chain, feasting on the birds and rodents that dared make a home in the frying pan of Utah. Red preferred high Noon the best, when a vast mirage turned the flats into an inviting, though absent, lake. It offered no refreshment, only the promise of sunstroke to those foolish enough to pursue it.

Fire Flats had once been a bustled little travel stop, strategically situated half way between Las Vegas and Salt Lake City. Folks in their Buicks and Chryslers would stop for a hearty meal, fill their tank, or even spend the night. But that was before I-15 opened up over sixty miles to the east. Within a year, Fire Flats went from being a vibrant stop to a town with a slow, wasting death.

Red Simpson leaned back till his ancient chair scratched the wall behind him. A wind-weathered tin roof stretched out between his gas station and two old pumps with peeling paint, standing guard nearby. It provided the only man-made shade for over a hundred miles. The station had a service bay, but it had been a long time since Red had an any customers needing repairs.

A bottle of tepid beer sat on a stool within arm's reach. Its beads of condensation had long since dried up in the Utah heat. At his feet lay Max. Red liked to describe him as a pure-bred mutt. The large dog was close to fourteen, but still managed to chase away any jackrabbits that got too curious. Right now, he panted lazily in the mid-day heat. Red reached down and scratched him behind floppy ears. Max thanked him with a few slow thumps of his tail against the cracked asphalt. The only inhabitants of Fire Flats other than Red and Max were the tumbleweeds. And even they wisely chose not to stick around.

With the peak of an old Dodger's baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, Red alternated views north and south, down the two narrow lanes of Route 130. Each glance lasted a minute or so, as if he was watching an invisible tennis match in slow motion. Red scratched an itch in the stiff, grey stubble on his chin. It and his hair had once been bright ginger, hence his nickname, but not anymore. His ex-wife Sheila had once called it sexy. But that was before he refused to abandon Fire Flats. That is when she called him crazy instead, and left his stubborn ass behind.

He easily caught the first flicker of motion in the southern haze. An extra patch of black appeared on the horizon.

"Looks like we got company," he said to Max.

Within a minute, he could tell it was a car. After five, he knew the make and model. By ten, he was chatting with the driver of a dark blue Volvo. He was a clean-cut guy in his early thirties with neatly trimmed brown hair and a pair dark sunglasses. He wore a pair of tan khakis and a white polo shirt. Looked like a guy on the road for business, Red thought to himself.