An orange moon rises above the desert in the early dawn and the oil man curses the ground he has worked so hard to develop. It is the fate of the first man, or so he used to believe. At times he wakes up and he loves the desert– he drank too much the night before and now sings the praises of a land that will one day swallow him up, for it is beautiful, he thinks. At other times he wakes up having drank a little too much the night before and thinks that if there is a god, he is bent on destroying him, and he whispers obscenities through gritted teeth toward that great and substantive agent of his demise. Sometimes he begs, though most days his pride precludes him from doing so.
Even the dog has given up on watching and whimpers for the sake of whimpering. The dishes pile up in the sink, the dust blows into the house, and the oil man sleeps without a shower before work the next day. He believes the foreman has taken a second job despite his staunch loyalty, god knows why, to this particular drilling site, and it hurts the oil man in a way that is somewhat delusional. But he isn’t sleeping all that much, so delusion comes easy.
Is this his lot in life, or will he one day strike once more that precious black treasure? Will he be able to forget? Perhaps the foreman will quit his side job and the dog will bark at the oil man’s spouse coming down the drive to greet him. She will apologize for taking so long to get there, make an empty promise, and give him a light kiss. Fate is smoking hot and everyone loves her.