The stars are pretty. I guess. “Sundown” by Gordon Lightfoot is lovely. I suppose. I’m sitting here on top of Dad’s car, looking up at the stars, on the side of a street that passes my old high school on a cold September night. I look up in the skies and wonder if Jair can see me. I wonder if he’s smiling at me, or if he’s concerned that I stole Dad’s car to come out here while having an emotional crisis. Jair Cruz was my brother. Ever since he was eight years old, this cop had come to school to tell us the importance of listening to our parents and not joining gangs. Jair wanted to be a cop. After much training and patience, he graduated from the police academy back in 2016. Yesterday, he got shot in the chest. Just two hours ago, he died.

I drove the dark green Ford Fusion all over Rio Rancho, even into Bernalillo. I tried going into the desert areas that lie directly west of Rio Rancho. It was beautiful, being surrounded by tumbleweeds, but after a while, I realized that being that far away from civilization in a place where no one could hear my screams for help if someone ambushed me made me too unnerved. Then I tried driving down to a bosque trail in Bernalillo, but then I had to leave because I remembered when Jair was 7, and I was 8, the two of us had come down here to film a short fan film: “Michael Myers vs. Leatherface.” Jair had been Leatherface with the Home Depot toy chainsaw and white apron that was too big for him, and I was Michael Myers, wearing the white mask with unkempt hair that made me look like Nick Nolte’s mugshot and a plastic knife. Our mom had been the camera operator with an old JVC camera.

I was driving all over Rio Rancho. I didn’t bring my phone, so no one could call me. I don’t know what I was looking for, and before long, I guess by fate, I ended up here right now.

I passed Rio Rancho High a couple of minutes ago. I drove over a street curb and onto a patch of the desert area. To the right of me is the city dump, and in front of me is a small gated community. To my left is Eagle Ridge Middle School, illuminated by the dark orange lights of the lamp poles. Aside from the buildings mentioned earlier, this place I’m parked right now is mostly desert, covered with bull thistle, annual bursage, tumbleweeds, and London Rockets.

The wind is faintly blowing, and I’ve seen some lightning far away in the distance like the clouds over there are crying for Jair.

I’ve got the windows down so I can hear “Sundown” playing on the stereo, though that song is ending and next is “Don’t Cross the River” by America. My name is Alejo Cruz. I’m a British-Mexican American, with a long beard and fairly muscular arms for a guy who works at Wendy’s from 9 to 5. I’m sitting here with my ass on the hood and my back against the windshield, wearing a Friday the 13th shirt, beige-colored pants, and grey and black drawstring shoes.

Jair’s voice echoes in my head as I remember the last time he and I talked two weeks ago. We had gone out to eat at IHOP, and I had asked him about something peculiar I had started noticing. Sometimes I would see them on the side of I-25, parked against the traffic barriers, and sometimes I’d see them on residential streets. They were abandoned cars. When they were in residential areas, you’d notice them once; then you’d see them again and again until they finally got that orange sticker put on them by the police. The last thing I asked Jair was, “What’s up with all the abandoned cars?” That’s exactly how I worded it.

“What?” he responded.

“I’ve seen all these abandoned cars all throughout here and Albuquerque.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen those too,” Dad added.

Jair just shrugged. “I don’t know.”

The conversation ended there, and the very last thing he and I said to each other was: “See you, Jair.”

“Take care, Alejo.”

That was it. Me and Jair’s last words to each other. I guess it’s not the worst final interaction between two brothers. Certainly not as bad as Hamlet’s dad and Claudius. Still, I think I should have said more. I wish our last conversation hadn’t been so abrupt and awkward. I haven’t talked to anyone as of yet. I just drove out here, and now I’m waiting.

“Waiting for what?” someone might ask.

“Well, you good-hearted simpleton,” I would say to them, “isn’t it obvious? I’m waiting here for a bus that may or may not exist to take me away into oblivion!”

Let me explain. Last night, I had a dream. I dreamed I was an old man whose son had just been shot by the police. I had short grey hair, wrinkled skin, a yellow T-shirt, blue jeans, and orange flip-flops. I was sitting on the hood of a silver Toyota Camry, expecting something to happen. The car was parked on the side of Coors, facing south, next to the ABQ Ride Bus Station and across from the Mark Pardo store. There were no other cars, and there were people walking on the sidewalk and waiting at the bus station.

I sat there, looking at the blue sky, watching the clouds, and feeling depressed when a bus suddenly pulled up next to my Toyota Camry. The door opened, and I walked in. The driver was ordinary, except that he didn’t ask for bus fare. He was a senior man with frizzy black hair and leather gloves. Everyone else on the bus was different, though. There was a middle-aged guy in a grey T-Shirt whose eyes told me he had just lost his wife to a serial killer. There was a man in a grey jacket whose eyes told me he had just stolen money from someone he loved and hated himself for it, and the woman in a red coat had just lost her cats two weeks after losing her family in a car crash. The list goes on. I asked the woman in the red jacket if I could sit next to the window. She sat up and let me in. I sat there, staring out the window, looking down at my own car as the bus slowly drove away. It was at that moment, as I noticed the Toyota Camry disappearing into the distance, that I realized that it was another abandoned car. This—at least in my dream—was the reason for the abandoned cars I would see on the side of the road. The drivers were people who couldn’t go on, so they just gave up and parked their vehicles in obscure places and waited for a bus to come and get them, something that would take them away from the rest of the world: the world of their attachments, the world of their loves, the world of their losses.

I woke up within three minutes, and I honestly forgot everything about that dream. I went to work, nervous about my brother. I didn’t know if he was going to be okay or if he was going to die. Part of me wasn’t optimistic, and that tainted everything. I still took orders like I was supposed to; I even talked to my co-workers and tried my best not to sound as stressed as I was. Then, I came home. I still live with my parents, so Mom and Dad were sitting there on the couch, watching Vice Principal on the Roku. They had come home to rest after staying with Jair all of last night and late into this afternoon. I stayed with him until it was time for my shift. Mom wanted me to stay, but Dad understood that I needed to get away. Some friends from Jair’s police station were at home with us, offering us their support.

I talked with one of the guys—a tall white guy with grey hair and a pointed nose. He looked kind of like a muscular John Lennon. I told him I didn’t know what to say, and he let me know he was there for me.

My mom is a short, British-American woman with grey hair and a narrow nose. My dad is a tall, Mexican-American man with short, grey hair and a round nose.

There was this other cop who tried to talk to me, a short balding white guy. He also let me know he was there for me, but then he said this; “Those Black Lives Matter people have no idea-“

“Go fuck yourself,” I told him. He didn’t even know that Jair supported Black Lives Matter and thought Blue Lives Matter was a joke at best. Jair didn’t even care that those beliefs made him unpopular with other cops.

I went to my room, got on my laptop, and started watching videos on YouTube: video essays, movie clips, music videos—all in a vain attempt to drown out the world around me.

It didn’t take my mind off of anything, and later on, I heard my mom get a phone call. She began to sob; so did Dad. Suddenly, the world became silent. All I could hear was their crying. I put together Jair’s fate right then and there. I rushed out down the hallway to the kitchen and took the keys to the Fusion that Dad hangs on the handle of a cabinet door. I did it with a quick and hurried pace. I didn’t want to face either of my parents at the moment like this; maybe this makes me a selfish little prick. I took the keys and rushed outside, neither Mom nor Dad followed me. The guy who looked like John Lennon asked where I was going, but I didn’t answer. I just got in the car and drove off.

I wanted to be alone, and it was as I was driving to the desert area to the west of Rio Rancho that I started questioning what the hell it was I was doing. Why was I driving the car around with no rhyme or reason? Then, the dream of the bus returned to me with full vividness.

What the hell am I doing now? I don’t know; I guess I just want that bus to come. Come and take me away to a place where all I have to do is sit for all eternity—not having to deal with anything but my grief. Now all I have to do is watch the stars in the meantime. Do they remind me how small I am? Of course.

How many people in the world have lost someone close to them today? Are there many people who are sad today, how many are as depressed as I am, and how many are less bitter than me? I look at the stars, and in my immature mind, I speculate how many sentient aliens have just lost loved ones. How many of all the conscious lives in the universe are depressed right now? How many have parked their vehicles in a deserted area and are looking to the night sky, waiting for some ethereal bus to come and take them away? Is ethereal the right word? Either way.

While sitting on the hood of the Fusion, a red Ferrari rounds a corner to my left. As it passes, its lights shine on me, and it speeds down the way for about twenty feet before I hear its tires screech and make a U-turn. It comes up the road and stops in front of me on the roadway.

“Don’t I know you?” a voice calls out. I turn to look; the Ferrari’s passenger side window is rolled down. I can’t see who’s inside, but the voice sounds vaguely familiar.

“Maybe; what’s your name?”

“I’m Jose. Jose Flores.” The name kind of rings a bell.

“Oh, hey. My name’s Alejo Cruz. Does that sound familiar?”

“Kind of. Did you go to Mrs. Cervantes’ English class at Cleveland middle school in Albuquerque?” My family and I lived in Albuquerque for a while; we moved to Rio Rancho about the time I started high school.

“I did. I remember you; how are you doing?”

“I’m doing good.”

“That’s great.”

“What are you doing out here?”

I’m silent for a while, trying to figure out how to word what I want to say.

I settle on “Well, my brother just died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that, man.”

“He was a cop; he got shot in the chest yesterday, died in the hospital two hours ago.” My eyes well up. “So, I’m just out here waiting for a bus, a magical bus-“

“Like The Magic Schoolbus with . . . what was her name?” Mrs. Frazzle?” I laugh, even through my tears.

“Mrs. Frizzle. Frazzle was a Sesame Street character.” “Oh, right.” Jose giggles slightly.

“Yeah, so um, what I was saying was that there’s a magical bus that I’m waiting for that’s going to take me away.”

“Where’s it going to take you?”

“I guess to find other lost people.” I cringe at my own use of the word, ‘lost.’ It doesn’t sound right, and I know there’s a better word I could have used.

“That’s sad, man.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Do you have any friends?”

“Yeah, I have friends at work. We’re not that close.” “How’s your family?”

“My Mom and Dad are devastated. I don’t think my uncles or aunts know yet.” “Why don’t you try helping them out? They probably need you right now.”

“Because I’m waiting here for the bus.”

“Well, why is waiting for the magic bus more important than being with your family, at a time when they need you most? I don’t mean to be judgmental or anything, I’m just asking.”

I think for a while, the tears coming down my cheeks.

“I guess I just don’t want my brother to be gone. I don’t want to be reminded. I mean I know that’s generic as fuck but—”

“Dude, if it’s what you feel, it’s what you feel. It doesn’t matter if it’s cliché or not.”

“I don’t want it to become real.”

“I get it, man. I was the same after my sister died.”

“Oh, right! Oh, dude, I’m sorry.” I remember him; he’s the guy whose sister killed herself. I remember. That was a sad day on the campus. Jose’s sadness created a gloomy aura around him that remained till the year ended. I felt terrible for him back then, but I was too scared to talk to him, like he’d make me sad also. I was an idiot and an asshole back then.

“Thank you. Anyways, look, it’s hard. I’m not going to pretend like it isn’t, but—as cliché as this probably sounds—you got to face reality eventually. Even if a bus comes and takes you away, the memory will still be there unless you get retrograde amnesia.” I faintly hear a buzz; I finally see Jose’s face as his phone lights up in the car. He has a beautiful look—with short hair, a mustache, and a round nose—and is wearing what I think is a Terminator 2 shirt. He looks up at me.

“I need to go, but, well, just think about what I said, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Take care.”

“You too.”

The Ferrari speeds forward a little bit before making another big U-turn and going back down the path it was heading before Jose decided to come back and talk to me.

As I hear the Ferrari drive away, I think about what Jose told me. I just sit there for a while and close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. I do it for six straight minutes, clearing my mind of everything. I heard of this technique before from one of my friends at work, but I never thought to try it until now. I open my eyes again and look out into the night. Jair is still dead. He’s up there right now, looking down at me. Me looking up at him.

“How you doing, Jair? Good? That’s great! Remember ‘Michael Myers vs. Leatherface?’ Yeah, it wasn’t even a movie. It was just a fight scene. I loved making it, though, is that weird? Yeah, you’re right, sorry, I know it’s not strange. Well, it’s been great talking, Jair. I’m going back to Mom and Dad; they need me right now. But don’t worry; I’ll talk to you again soon. Take care. Jair, I love you. Take care.”

I climb off the hood of the Fusion. I get in the driver’s seat just as “Don’t Cross the River” by America ends and “Body and Soul” by Anita Baker begins. I start the car and drive away down the road, back towards my house.

I look in the rearview mirror, and I see a bus pull up to where I was parked. It’s not taking me yet.

The End.

– Ian Naranjo