Desert Bus Stop

The skinny white dog was painted mid jump on the blue oval sign. Five bullet holes had pierced it. The rim of the holes had the metal bent backward. Rust, tiny red-brown pigments, had eaten in between the remaining paint. The sign was small and flimsy, just a little something that someone had screwed to the roof without a bench.

It was a vestige of human civilization in the expanse of golden brown dirt, little mounds, a little track of something, and a cluster of vermin or snake holes. That desolate expanse reached to the horizon, where some lowly hills obscured the farther view, not even mountains. That would have been a destination. The only interesting thing was a dead 7 foot tree. The desert had dried it out so savagely that the bark shriveled up to half its juicy green size, all the way to the point where it turned into crumbs. The dead branches paid testimony to nature heat pulverizing the tree with the merciless baking light, the sun.

Caroline stood with her head in the shade of the roof. Her freshly shaven, bare shins reflected the blazing sun. The black-purple high heels had a patent leather shine to them. Her feet were arching high in the heels. Her calves were tightening and rising high. A lavender dress started mid-thigh. The fabric was very light and looked limp. The limp feeling strengthened the impression of timid, little person from the distance. However up close, her butt cheeks were clenched. Her spine was extra straight. Her shoulder blades were pulled back. Her whole body was balanced on her own axes. And that made her size B breasts pushed out. They were in front of her body like an ambassador announcing that her body would follow, like figurehead on the bow of a historic sailing ship carving through the world's oceans: "Listen up world, here comes Caroline!"

The dress had triangles over her breasts held up by thin string over her shoulder that showed plenty of her skin. The skin was smooth and young. Her chin was parallel to the ground. Her posture was perfect like she had practiced holding a book on top of her head for hours at a charming school. The makeup in her face was a smooth layer of pasty-white base. Her lips were painted in a bright pink. Her left hand reached into the blue leather purse that hung close to her armpit with the white, slightly foamy deodorant marks. Her fingers lifted metal tab of a diet coke inside of her purse. A refreshing million dollar his popped in the absolute silence of the Chihuahuan Desert.

Not a single car passed. The roughness of the asphalt showed with a million tiny little holes and unevenness, too small to see the individual holes. The color was also a blend of light gray and white dots, both of which were too small to see individually. The only thing that was clear were the bold, thick yellow stripes in the center of the road. They had a richness too them that was calming and centering. One followed the next in a straight line for hundreds and hundreds of yards probably miles until the road converged into a single point in the distance into those lowly hills unworthy of geographic recognition. They, the road, the desert, and Caroline, where all standing still, as a lizard to conserve energy, with 105 degrees, which all felt like 105 individual bastards tormenting her, trying to wear her down, making her fight against them to stand a little taller with a little more poise.

A white shuttle bus, like one of those little ones from the airport, wound its way through the desert towards the road. It big black oversized windows. There was a black box with a sign above the windshield. The whine of the engine was faint. It carried crystal clear across the desert silence, like one can hear a pin drop at the center of an ancient Greek amphitheater because of superior acoustics. Caroline also heard her own breath, small, feminine, and nervous.

The bus made a complete stop before entering the road, despite not a car being visible. Caroline offered herself the respite of one last weight shift from her left hip to the right hip. The sense of blood flowing back into her compressed left knee from standing forever was a delicious, private joy. The bus grew in size at it came larger. And still it would fit 15 people at most. The sign over the windshield read: "Courtesy shuttle - James Lynaugh Unit."

The driver pushed a lever to open the French-style doors. It was an old man with gray hair, short trim and clean face, who smiled at her. He was thin and in uniform. She carefully placed her high heels that were an inch higher than she normally wears on the first step and pulled herself into the refreshing cool of an air condition - an instant temperature plunge of 35 degrees. Her skin was so cold that it felt wet.

"You are lucky, miss. I sometimes cheat a little and take a break instead of driving out here. Not many people visit Lynaugh. It's 17 hours from the nearest airport," said the bus driver.

Caroline sat down with her knees pressed together and quickly crossed her knees, so that one high heel dangled in the air. She had to hold onto the pole, when the bus drove over the hump into the desert side road. Her whole body got shaken and was struggling to keep her poise against the momentum.

Her phone buzzed. She slipped the pink iPhone out of the purse on her shoulder. It was a text: "Caroline, you don't have to do this. You are bold beyond anything for even going this far. Please, come back. We never meant to egg you on this far with the challenge. It was a stupid idea. We are all sorry."

"You better reply soon, because the signal fades quickly once we leave the highway," instructed the driver. His arms were making wide movements to turn the big horizontal steering wheel. He turned into the dip of a wash, one of those desert rivers that's dry all the year, except for one day when rain sends an apocalyptic torrent down, which carves deeply into the loose dirt.

Double-thumbed Caroline typed back: "I'm almost there. Tell Steve to have the $1,000 ready, when I come back. XO Caroline" Then she watched the last bar disappear from her phone. The display switched to a symbol of a broken cell tower: "No signal."

"My wife runs a little B&B. Actually, it's only our spare room. Though, it's a firm mattress and clean sheets. It makes the visits a little easier to have a place to sleep overnight. Take one of the cards. You never know when you need it." The bus driver pointed a pile of business cards that were wrapped to a pole with rubber strings. The print was green with a little palm tree.

"Thank you, sir. I won't be back. This is a onetime thing," replied Caroline.

"Oh, boy. I feel sorry for the guy. They guys here are very isolated from the rest of the country. Even a close family finds it hard to travel this far to visit them. It's very sad. A few times a year, I see a pretty thing like you with a vanilla envelope, divorce papers all signed. And the same week, the prison bulletin reports an inmate taking a razor blade or hanging from the ceiling," blabbered the bus driver in a stern voice.

"No, no, it's not like that," insisted Caroline.

"Well, it's none of my business," acquiesced the bus driver upset. "A young thing with those heels and that dress will quickly find the next one." The bus driver upraised her body in the rear view mirror with an elevator glance. "I have a son in the Marines. He's good looking, strong, and hard working. He got a freedom medal last months. You should consider him."

The bus driver got his phone out. He leaned on the steering wheel with his elbows, while swiping through photos. Then, he leaned far back to reach Caroline the phone. "American made, the real deal," he added with salesmanship. "He's never laid his hand on a woman, because he knows his old man would kick the daylight out of him." Caroline politely looked at the photo. "He is a handsome man, your son. I'm afraid my situation is more comfortable."

"All cagey," the bus driver hissed with anger on his face. "You must be from a big city, even worse probably a city from either coast." The driver hit the radio hard. The report of a football game started with an excited narrator speaking a hundred words a minute.

The facility appeared in sight: A cluster of low flung boxy beige buildings. There was a parking lot set in the distance in front of it. The wire mesh fence running around the facility was a little meaner than your average variety to keep desert foxes out. It had razor blade barbed wire running on top. It had a second set of fence separated by carefully manicure, 100% flat desert soil. With a little disbelief it could have been a warehouse complex, except for the sign that they passed. It said, "Texas Department of Criminal Justice - James Lynaugh Unit."

Right after the sign, the pavement got nicer. The paint turned from yellow to white and had a remarkable crispness to it. The bus turned into the parking lot. There was a sign "visitor parking" with a set of parking spaces. There was a hulking black Escalate SUV. A Latin man with a black power suit, ties, and reflective glasses was standing at the back, like a driver or protection, in a comfortable stance, ready to wait for hours while exuding authority. Next to it was a little beater Honda with the paint peeled and the car sagging low on the worn out suspension. A pair of girls in overly bright JC Penny hot pants and miniskirts climbed out of the back over the front seat out of the door. They had an uneducated look on their face.

"Those girls are carpooling. Prisontalk.com is a great place to find carpools. It saves you the money for the Greyhound ticket. Plus, many people find that they need human company and consoling on the long trip, when they are left alone with their thoughts and worries," the bus driver had completely forgotten about the onetime thing and had gone back to his usual narrating.

The driver leaned to push the door open with the shiny, polished chrome lever: "End of station, Missy." Caroline uncrossed her legs, pressed her knees together, and swooped onto the high heels. She carefully reached her toes down one step at a time, while carefully holding onto the railing. Her poise was fragile. The desert heat hit her like an open oven. Her eyes produced tear from the pain of heat. Her lung pulled in flimsy, scorching air. She forced herself to keep pulling in and out air. Her heels made loud tick-tock sounds crossing the pedestrian walkway the mirror black window with the sign "visitation."

She pulled the door open. It was a small room with eight gray, thinly upholstered chairs. There was one exit door with a metal detector in front of it. There was a big billboard of "prison visitation rules." The bottom of the sign had a bold red warning: "If you in any way cause disruption, you will cause your inmate to be punished as well. Think twice. Do the right thing. If you have bad plans in your heart, you can still turn around now. And it will never have happened."

Caroline stepped up to the counter with the Plexiglas and speaking hole. A tall uniformed man was sitting behind it.

"Hi, my name is Caroline Woodrow. I am here to visit Eliseo Ortiz. I'm on the visitor's log," stated Caroline politely and clearly.

The guard looked at printed list and crossed her name off. Then he turned a clipboard around and pushed it to Caroline. "Please, sign the prison rules. Initial every constitutional right that you are waiving in exchange for being allowed visitation." With each CW, Caroline felt herself sinking in deeper into helplessness into being inserted into a machine that wouldn't care about her. She had entered a foreign world. Like Christopher Columbus had stepped onto the white spot on the map, so did she. She couldn't tell what would await her, riches of gold, impassable jungle, or hostile Indians. She felt the shakes coming on in her arms. She had to focus to get her signature cleanly onto the paper.

"This is a conjugal visit." The air went almost completely out of her. Her heart stopped beating for a second. Then with thundering power, it would contract and shoot blood into her ears and face. It would seize again for a second. Her stomach was turning in apprehension about the next thundering contraction of her heart that would pound her whole body. Her vision went a little blurry.

The guard looked at her. "I have a letter from him. He agreed to a conjugal visit." The next second was broken into ten chapters. Each chapter was of epic size, like the overbearing chapter in Moby Dick, where Herman Melville droned on and on about the evilness of the color white. Her thighs became gooey. She simply wanted to lay down on the cool vinyl floor. The terror of what might happen to her for acting out kept her standing, kept her mouth shut waiting for the guard to respond.

"Are you his wife?" asked the guard.

"No, I'm his girlfriend. Pecos county law 102b has a provision that allows girlfriends conjugal visits. I have a printed copy here." Caroline reached into her purse to find the folded up printout. She had chosen Lynaugh, because it was in the only county that allowed non-wives conjugal visitation rights.

"That's alright, Miss. You will have to register as his official girlfriend. I can do that for you here." The guard started typing on his computer.

"That would be excellent," replied Caroline politely.

"Where you two living together prior to his incarceration?" asked the guard.

"No, we grew close writing letters to each other," replied Caroline barely truthfully. She had only sent a single letter to Eliseo. She had carefully laid out her case with crafted prose that built up to the steamy proposition. And, she trusted that male sexuality would happily fuck any pussy that was laid at the mercy of his dick. "you down to fuck I show you mucho grande," was his reply no capital letters, no punctuation, no greeting. The G in grande was a giant circle, three times the size of the other letters. And with two shaky first grader lines the circle had been turned into a G. The U in fuck had dropped two lines lower than the rest of the word. The space between the O and U of 'you' was a whole inch. Yet, the space between the word 'you' and 'down' was non-existent. In fact, the U touched the D.

The guard carefully studied the computer screen. Caroline adjusted her shoulder blades to be more upright. Steading her anticipation, she read the guard's name tag: James Malone. He had blond Hitler mustache above his lip. It was neatly trimmed. The end of the whiskers were in perfect alignment.

"Ms. Woodrow, do you realize that Mr. Ortiz is a heavy gang banger. He is incarcerated with narcotics trafficking over 10 lbs. He has two murder conviction outside of the prison and one inside of the prison. It says that he never completed high school. There is a red warning on record for anger issues. I wouldn't go into a room with him alone even if I had a gun. Are you sure, you want a conjugal visit with this man without ever meeting him?"

"Yes, our love runs very deep. And he's turning his life around," Caroline lied with a fire red blushing face. All she knew about the perp was that he wanted to show her mucho grande.

"Okay, I warned you. You are not the first criminal groupie. Sign this form to declare that you are his official girlfriend," the guard slid her another clipboard with a form. Her heart had changed to a fluttering tipsy mess, bouncing around in irregular rhythms, fast, skipping, and double beating. She signed her name and date.

The guard paused before hitting the enter key on the girlfriend declaration. "Ms. Woodrow, you seem like a very nice girl. You are polite. You seem educated. Once I submit your girlfriend declaration, you will be a registered associate for Mr. Ortiz. You will be in the FBI database and state police database. Any time that he does something, the red-and-blue lights will show up at your doorstep with all your neighbors watching. Any time that you have a background check done, this will come up as a red flag. Are you very sure that you want to go through with this?"

With a very thin voice, barely able to get her vocal cords to clap, she said, "yes, I do." Her mind was swirling. "Do what you are told," was the mantra that she kept telling to herself. The guard hit the enter key. She felt ethereal handcuffs put on her. This was the point of no return. She had paid so much that she couldn't turn around.

A printer rattled and then swished. A white visitation tag appeared. The guard handed it to her. She was visitor number 450037: "Caroline Woodrow." And in small print, it said, "inmate Eliseo Ortiz." There was a bar code. She pinned it to her summer dress.

"I'll have to take your purse," said the guard. He put a plastic box on the counter.

"Condoms? Can I take condoms?" asked Caroline panicked at the thought of prison disease.

"You can hand carry two," replied the guard dryly.

"Can I bring lube? What if I don't get aroused quickly enough." asked Caroline with a shaking voice.

"Nope, lube is not approved. Use spit," said the guard sternly.

She picked the red one that was magnum size and the blue one for regular size for the case that he had exaggerated the mucho grande like every other male. Awkward with such an explicit items in her small and now very sweaty hands, she walked toward the metal detector. A woman stepped through the door behind it. She had curly hair. She had a chubby, low center of gravity. She carried the belt with the stick, Taser, hand cuffs, and utility pockets around her hips in a swinging motion. She already had blue Latex gloves on.

Caroline stepped through the metal detector, those invisible prying electromagnetic wave sensors that pried deeply into her body down to her bones. They knew everything about her. The fear that made her almost stutter. The out of place feeling. The trepidation of not knowing how she would be coerced or what the guards would make her do. She felt helpless not knowing her rights. And even if she knew her rights, there would be nobody to save her or pledge her rights to.

The female prison guard wordlessly opened the door. The guard was chewing pink bubble gum. Her eyes were bored and glazed over. The guard didn't even bother talking. Once they were in the private room, the guard simply stretched her arms to indicate to Caroline to stretch her arms. Caroline obediently followed. She looked around the 7x7 room with a single desk, where she had to put down the two condoms.

The guard carefully glided along Caroline's bare arms. The guard was slowly and meticulously, the complete opposite of the quick pat downs that she received at the door of a club. The guard's fingers massaged her scalp. It gave her strange tingles. She was fighting against the soothing feeling that reminded her of getting a hair wash before a haircut. The guard folded Caroline's ears over to look behind them from contraband. Caroline felt like a monkey would feel, when they groom each other for lice.

The guard's hands followed the contour of Caroline's torso. The hands circled her breasts. Caroline steadied herself against the tender touch. And the fingers kept going to her nipples to give them a gentle squeeze.

"You know, now genital piercings are allowed. You have to take them off first. I won't find anything on you, will I?" asked the guard. The words were drawn out. The guard open mouth chewed her gum in between and mouth breathed.

"No, I don't have any piercings," stated Caroline.

"Good," said the guard. The guard's fingers kept caressing her dress down. When the guard was squatting down, she sternly told Caroline to look at the wall. The guard's rubbery hand went up Caroline's thighs inside of the dress. Caroline's impulse rushed to struggle against the intimate touch. She forced herself to hold still, to let those fingers keep on encroaching deeper and deeper into the privacy under her dress. The fingers reached her panties. An index finger went under the rubber bands. The thumb closed around the rubber bands. The guard's fingers traced the hem of her panties over her butt and in between her thighs, where they touched the outside of her vulva. Caroline quivered internally.