A letter to Mojave Joe

Portland OR

Description

17 moons and 83 blistering, filthy, and desolate miles ago, I stood toe to toe with Mojave Joe outside mi abuela’s hacienda. Wild eyed, downtrodden, and fiercely ravenous, Mojave Joe laid out his plans using a raggedy stick to draw in the dusty clay. “North” he told me, motioning vaguely towards scorched earth unknown. The crude map outlined a river deep set in the alluvial fans and sandwiched between two parallel tilted mountain ranges. “To the salt lands I see” I quietly said to Mojave Joe as to not awake mi abuela. “Si” said Mojave Joe with hollow but hopeful tone. I pointed to a squat table for him to take a quick bite to eat before he set out on his undoubtedly treacherous and perilous journey. But before I could turn back around, only the smell of his slicked, greasy hair remained. Goodbye Mojave Joe, beware The Bloodhound and murderous bounty hunters. I pray that you find peace in the vast hellhole you’ve ventured into. Your friend, “Brandywine Bonita”