Desert Pastoral

 

He was dressed in asinine garb. Who the hell would dress in such a daft outfit for a day in the desert? Yet, there he stood looking westward, the direction from whence he’d come. Standing on the large granite rock decked out in a ridiculously comfortable silk pajama top, bottoms and matching slippers. He was prepared for absolutely nothing to help overcome his rapidly developing grueling circumstances.

 

There had been a car accident, a bad one. A single vehicle, reckless driving behavior resulting in a tragic and lethal crash.

 

He and four others were en route to a photo shoot. One for which a high-end clothing line was paying handsomely. A driver had been provided for him, two other models and the photographer. Alcohol had been flowing, champagne. Against the law, of course, but the law hardly applied to these ones. These supermodel beauties floated in rarefied air distinctly above it, the law. At least, that’s what they’d been led to think at every juncture of adjudicating opportunity to date. The law of natural selection, however, abides by a different set of adjudicating protocols, and it did not involve a jury of one’s peers.

 

An empty, cracked champagne glass still in his hand. The wreck had fortunately thrown him safely from the vehicle unto a sand dune, a relatively soft landing considering the possibilities. He rolled upon impact, his instincts helping in this respect. The others, his cohorts, not as fortunate. Two others were thrown, but to a less well placed finish. Dead. The other two remained in the vehicle, their days on earth had also been abruptly drawn to a messy close. Seat belts may have helped save a life or two, but that was now a moot consideration.

 

He fingered the single button on his gorgeous pajama top, the finger subconsciously luxuriating in comfort with the casual brushing up against the silk.

 

His mobile phone had no connection. It did once fleetingly show one bar, but it passed and did not return.

 

He had already rummaged through the vehicle, the trunk, purse and pockets of his deceased colleagues. Their phones also lacked the necessary gusto. He found a half sleeve of water crackers, nothing more of use, except maybe additional clothing he’d need late at night to combat the eventual chill. But he wasn’t thinking clearly and passed over them without further thought. He set out on foot in his slippers and fabulous pajamas. A more elegantly bedecked creature was easily more than a day’s walk away.

 

The road they’d traveled was mostly abandoned, used decades ago for the now long forgotten ghost town, the photo shoot’s destination. His brain, not right, told him to head directly west, the most direct and straight way to safety. But his brain was foggy, derelict and incorrect sending him to his death, not yet actualized.

 

The sun was rising over the distant horizon. Temperature was 90-degrees F and would be increasing quickly as the sun approached its apex. His slippers consistently slipped off his feet causing him to stumble. He walked on.

 

 

[Inspired by a magazine advertisement, a clothing line with a beautiful desert scape with an elegantly dressed young man grandiosely misplaced in the scene. -klem]