This town is surrounded by the barest utilities of life. But when you step inside it, the farce begins. And this is a car driven farce. It banks into tall highway overpasses and delivers pink suede electronic delights. At night, the lights from those in search of good times are so bright, they bounce back enough brightness you can read whatever bible you’ve been praying over by it. It’s a rattlesnake and a tornado and a quaking ceramic tower. Helicopters beam down as much noise as searching lights and you find yourself fighting the urge to dart into the bushes even when everyone knows they’re not looking for you. And now the cameras come out, legions of them, operated by fame minded milquetoasts and security obsessed monitors hidden behind thick concrete walls. The cameras foil innocence out here and in doing so, shape a magical lie- a lie that says, hey, you can be whoever you want. You can’t. You can just be you.
by Hank Cherry
