The Lost. Sarah Beth Durst
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you shush up,” the woman says. “Bidders only. Samsonite carry-on coming up. Looks to be from...can’t see the tag. That makes all the difference, you know. Plus whether the owner was coming or going.” She cranes her neck to see the new suitcase that Tiffany has plucked from the pile.
Seizing her moment of distraction, I slide past her. Tiffany hefts the suitcase over her head and twists so that everyone can see it. She then lowers it onto the trunk of my car beside her with a thump. I wince on behalf of my poor car.
“I’d like to check out.” I hold up the key to the motel room, and I notice that she is wearing high-heeled shoes. If she’s dented my car, I am sending her a bill...once I am as far away as possible.
“Kind of in the middle of something here,” Tiffany says to me. She raises her voice to the crowd. “Offering a good deal on this one. Samsonite from San Diego. Marks on the wheels, so this is a frequent traveler. Male name on the luggage tag with California address.”
A man raises his hand.
“Noted.” Tiffany nods. “Counteroffers?”
Another hand goes up.
“You don’t have anything left, Jerome. A different offer. Anyone have any granola bars? No? Chocolate? Candy of any sort? Come on, someone must have won some snack—”
“Life Savers,” I say. “I have a roll in the car. It’s yours if you move this show a few parking spots to the left and let me pull out.”
“Deal,” Tiffany says. “And I will throw in this carry-on, this being your first Lost barter and all. Folks, hold on to your bids. Got a preempt transaction here.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” I say. “I don’t want someone else’s luggage.”
“It’s not someone else’s.” Tiffany hops off my trunk. “It’s yours. And you’d better take it. You don’t have much to trade.” She slaps the trunk as if that will cause it to open.
“Fine.” I pop open the trunk with my key.
She tosses the carry-on inside and then slams the trunk lid down with enough force that it causes the car to rock. Pivoting to face me, she holds out her hand. “Life Savers?”
Trying to ignore the eyes of the crowd, I go to the front of the car and dig the roll out of the glove compartment. It’s full, minus one Life Saver. I hand the roll to Tiffany.
“Sweet,” Tiffany says. “Pun totally intended. Okay, everyone, move left!”
The crowd mutters to each other in words that could have been English or Spanish but somehow sound more primal, like the grunts of cavemen before they take down their prey. I feel like prey. I plaster a smile on my face to show I appreciate the effort and that I’m nice and harmless and civilized, and aren’t we all civilized here?
I’m not judging them on their clothes or the filth that clings to their skin or their uncut and unkempt hair. It’s the look in their eyes. Hungry. And also the filth and their hair.
“Thank you so much!” I chirp at them.
The mountain of suitcases is shoved to the side, and a barefoot boy climbs to the top of the stack. A man pulls him down.
“Can you tell me where to find the gas station?” I ask Tiffany.
Tiffany smirks. “Next town. Don’t have one here.”
“Great,” I say. “Well, then, thanks for everything. Slept well. No complaints.” I climb into the car and wave, aware that I sound and look like a chipper idiot. I toss my purse onto the passenger seat.
Everyone watches me as I put the car in Reverse and pull out of the parking spot. I glance in the rearview mirror as I turn onto the street. Everyone is still staring at me. So are all the patrons in the diner, their faces pressed against the glass. The beautiful-as-steel waitress, Victoria, is there as well, her back stiff and ramrod-straight, as if she were a soldier at attention.
Mental note, I think. Never come here again.
I am halfway out of town before I realize that I still have the key to the motel room and that I never paid. I decide I will mail the key and a check to Tiffany once I’m home. I am done with this place.
I look back once more and see a red balloon float away over the town.
* * *
I drive past the Welcome to Lost sign. “Good bye, Lost,” I say to the sight in the rearview mirror. I switch on the radio. This time, there isn’t static, which is a relief. It’s a song that I don’t recognize, though, so I change the station. Same song. I change it again. Same song again. I go through the stations, scanning at first and then tuning to each station, even those that should be static. But all of them are playing the same song. I turn off the radio. It must be broken.
I drive in silence.
It shouldn’t be far to the highway entrance ramp.
Wind blows dust across the road. It dissipates across the desert. There are no clouds in the sky, and the sun washes over the red earth. It isn’t hot yet, and with luck, it will be another nice day for a drive. Maybe that’s what I should tell people, “It was a nice day for a drive.” Certainly sounds better than “I’m a coward with an overactive imagination.”
By now, I should have seen the entrance ramp. Looking in the rearview mirror, I can’t see the town anymore, not even the water tower.
I don’t remember driving more than a few minutes off the highway last night. But maybe it was longer and I’m overeager to escape. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I keep driving.
Dust billows. It blots out the view of the road in front of me. Another dust storm, or dust bank. Like last night, it doesn’t seem to have much wind behind it. It sits on the road. Soon, I’m inside it, and the desert is a blur around me.
I slow and turn on my lights. I don’t want to miss the highway entrance in the dust. I peer at the side of the road and watch for a break in the fence that could indicate an entrance ramp. But there isn’t one. The posts keep appearing, one after another like reliable ghosts.
Strange that there should be another dust storm. Or maybe it isn’t so strange. Maybe the contours of the land make this area prone to them. Don’t be paranoid, I tell myself.
Eventually, the dust clears, the storm recedes to the rearview mirror, and I relax. Not even the worst dust storm can last forever, even if it feels as though it’s swallowed the world. Now that I’m out, I am certain that I will see the highway soon.
Ahead, I spot a sign:
Welcome to Lost
My car rolls to a stop next to the sign.
I stare at the chipped wood with the gold letters.
There must have been a fork in the road. I must have somehow taken a turn within the dust storm. I hadn’t been able to see both sides of the road. It had been impossible to tell direction. The road could have split and then somehow circled back here... I don’t remember a fork or a merge or any turns, but there’s no other explanation.
Shaken, I check carefully in both directions—there are still no other vehicles on the road—and do an overly cautious three-point turn, like my mom if she has to drive in downtown L.A. I head away from town. Again.
A few miles down the road, I hit the dust storm. It swallows me and the desert and the road. This time, I inch forward and keep as close to the side of the road as I can without driving on the dirt, so that I don’t miss the highway entrance a second time. It has to be here somewhere.
I am in the dust storm for nearly half an hour.
A minute after I emerge, I see the Welcome to Lost sign.
I slam on the brakes and hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. I swear I didn’t feel the road turn. It didn’t fork. This makes no