This story was included as part of my Honors Portfolio at Susquehanna University; it was likely written in 2002. The preface to my portfolio contained this cringe-inducing phrase: “I dislike of any form of political-correctness in fiction or poetry.” I was going through a few phases: emulation of William Gass’s eschewing of quotation marks in “The Pedersen Kid,” Rick Bass’s creation of pastoral, near-mythic men, and the fiction of my own professor, Tom Bailey. All were, and continue to be, instructive influences, but I’ve hopefully moved away from mere imitation. This story was part of my “Southwestern years”: meaning, absolutely everything I wrote was set in the Southwest. I still love to write about the region, but don’t do so exclusively. After submitting it, superficially, to a few magazines (Southwest Review, Black Warrior Review), I saved the cardstock form rejections. The story has hibernated until now.

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Stragen told Pursell about the lights he saw. The lights, Stragen said, danced and bounced, clustered and swarmed in parabolic formations, over one of the buildings of the electronics company. Pursell was interested; he’d flown Texans during the second World War, ones that spat oil and slicked across clouds that touched the tops of German mountains. Pursell loved the idea of sky and hated the constraints of the ground. They both worked at the San Lucas Public School; Stragen a janitor and Pursell a painter. At San Lucas, the heat of Arizona cooked the stucco over their heads, while Stragen told his story.

Pursell’s fingertips were blue with paint as he stood behind the school and smoked El Reys, his lips pointed like a whistle. In-between puffs he’d say repeat, or what, because his ears had waxed amber from, he said, all those jumps and dives in altitude. He listened to Stragen because Stragen was in the first World War, even though Stragen was a land man and didn’t know a damn thing about flying.

Stragen was new, fresh. Hired two months ago. The trailer Stragen lived in for the past eight years sat off an inlet of Route 16, five minutes south of Lorriver. Pursell rolled his pick-up off the black paved road onto the brown dust of the desert. Stragen’s trailer, dark tan and crusted, had powder-blue window curtains. The ground in front of the trailer was littered with broken-down old lawnmowers. Pursell maneuvered through and between detached carburetors, piles of greased pistons, and flat tires melted over busted wheel spokes.

Careful, Stragen said.

Pursell lifted his head from watching his ankles to see Stragen, door-open. He spanned the whole doorway. Pursell took in the man, since a man only looks natural and right in his own home. Stragen’s white hair shined like soap and his beard fluffed out like whipped cream.

You can bring your truck closer. I park mine behind the trailer.

It’s not a problem.

Actually, your truck probably takes this ground better than my Dodge. Stragen stepped out from the door. So, if you don’t mind.

Pursell didn’t, and brought the truck down to the trailer. His tires pushed dust over the lawnmowers. Stragen stepped in, and Pursell felt the truck dip a bit. Stragen was massive, almost as tall as a Viking.

It’s about five minutes straight behind the trailer. Stragen reached his arm out the window and pointed ahead. I don’t like to walk because with these knees I could pop a hip on a fucking pebble.

What town is this?

San Lucas. The edge.

Pursell nodded and drove around the side of the trailer, and passed Stragen’s Dodge as they bumped across patches of grass and dirt. 3:40, and the moon’s edges faded into the blue air. Stragen looked ahead.

Here.

Pursell stopped. Both men stepped out. They met at the front of the truck, still breathing hot on their backs. Stragen took up so much space Pursell misjudged standing next to him, and bumped his arm. Stragen was almost 50, but thick.

Sometimes the moon sits right there. Beyond those small patches of green.

Pursell couldn’t follow Stragen’s description.

I’m talking about Mount Neese. You see, the tip spears the moon.

Shit, you can see forever out here. I wish we had vision like this over Hamburg.

Stragen laughed. During the day I can see California, if I imagine a bit.

How is it at night?

Perfect. Even better.

How so?

The night cleanses, Stragen said. He moved his hands over his face like he was washing it. The night is really never black. No, it’s blue and sometimes grey, but never black, like those highways.

And this is where you saw them? Pursell eyed the buildings in the distance, the metal that contrasted the brown of earth.

Yes. The lights jumped around there. It was a show.

Stragen’s arms were crossed. Black and white hair peppered his round forearms. He leaned against the front of the truck and brought it down with his weight.

You sure it wasn’t a plane? Maybe a Cessna? Or one of those army jobs. Those young motherfuckers take them for joy rides.

Stragen’s arms raised with his breath.

They weren’t planes. The army planes are like eels, with lights on their tips. The bodies of the planes are darker than the night sky.

Don’t they train near here? I mean, they must come down from Luke AFB. They’re always in the desert doing some type of topographic bull-shit.

Stragen brought his arms down.

I’ve watched a plane move, and they can only dip at certain angles. They don’t flutter down like feathers. They can’t fly as well as birds.

Pursell couldn’t stop looking at the moon. There it stayed, a dab on the afternoon sky. It had no business being there; it just seemed to throw everything off. Like night was trying to sneak into day.

How many times?

What’s that?

How many times have you seen them?

Seventeen this month, nine the last.

Stragen’s eyes were closed. His square chin peeked out through his beard. Pursell watched him, this huge man, whose hands could palm the headlights of Pursell’s truck. Pursell smoked, and kicked up dust, while Stragen waited for night.

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Pursell walked along the edge of the classroom at San Lucas, the tips of his boots wet from rain-soaked grass. The sun glared after the morning storm, and Pursell slung his flannel over his shoulder, warm from the new heat. Inside, the students read about Mesopotamia; it was World History, fifth grade. Always the same class at 1:30. Pursell memorized the schedule of each room, even recognized a few heads, sandy-haired, or boys with long necks that sat in the back of class.

The dark maroon paint glistened under the windowsill. Pursell’s knees were cold, his jeans on the wet grass. Stragen plodded out from behind the school, a shovel and pitchfork over his right shoulder, his left hand pulling a wheelbarrow. With each step he covered several feet. Pursell watched him move across the grass to fresh mud that laid at the edge of the parking lot.

Stragen mashed the mud with the back of his shovel, then spread the ground with the pitchfork. A triangle of sweat darkened the back of his grey tee shirt. His knees wobbled with each dip and throw of the pitchfork. His torso was so heavy, so wide, that it seemed nothing short of steel would hold it up.

Pursell evened out the dripped paint, half of his eye on the windowsill, the other half looking inside. The teacher was short, his writing only filled the bottom half of the blackboard. His face did remind Pursell of Mr. Jacobsen; compressed, almost walnut-sized. Eleven years old, in Tucson, Pursell took European History with Mr. Jacobsen. With abstract strokes, Mr. Jacobsen sketched Eastern European countries, whose shapes looked like lamb chops.

After two coats, Pursell looked back at Stragen. He sat on the curb, his back to Pursell, the sweat extending to the edges of his shirt. Stragen looked ahead, like he was searching the afternoon sky for something Pursell couldn’t see.

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Stragen stretched out on the chair, the seat barely enough room for him. His legs were thick as two redwoods, based in his 52” waist. Stragen drank so much whiskey. Pursell wondered if he’d done the same the nights he saw the lights.

Pursell stayed away from the liquor, and smoked. He watched Stragen watch the night, his eyes stuck on the buildings ahead.

Whose property is that? The land before Mount Neese.

The buildings? Those belong to that electronics company.

I know. You’ve said. But do they own the whole area? How close to your property does their land run?

About a half a mile.

And no signs?

Nothing. There’s nobody out here. They have nothing to worry about.

When’s the last time you saw those lights?

Last week. Twice.

Always late at night?

Yes. Close to midnight.

The moon was low on their faces. Pursell’s watch read 11:26. He was hungry, and almost out of El Reys.

Think we’ll see any tonight?

I’m not the one to ask.

An hour later, they were inside the trailer, Stragen’s bottle of whiskey laid turned over outside, Pursell hungry and out of El Reys, Stragen huddled over peanut butter and bread. Stragen handed Pursell a plate, with a finger-marked peanut butter sandwich. Pursell took it down quick, and after some water, he let his head fall back into the couch.

Stragen tossed a white envelope on Pursell’s lap.

Those are the photos. I want you to take a look. I’m sure they aren’t planes.

Pursell thumbed through the three photos. Each photo showed black night. Nothing else.

Stragen watched him, from the edge of the couch. Hunched over, Pursell looked through each photo, harder, almost a minute spent on each. He looked up at Stragen.

I don’t see anything.

They’re not planes.

I see black.

They couldn’t be planes. Not the way they flew.

I don’t see planes. Nothing. Just the night.

Why don’t you look again.

Pursell did. He stared, and stared again. He squinted his eyes and opened them wide. His throat burned from so many El Reys, it was all he could do out there while Stragen drank, but all Pursell could taste was peanut-butter on his gums.

What am I supposed to see?

Stragen was over him. Pursell could smell peanut-butter on his fingers. Stragen stood enormous, but his knees quaked like the El Reys that bounced in Pursell’s mouth outside San Lucas. The photos fell onto the patterned rug at their feet. Right then, under Stragen, Pursell knew Mr. Jacobsen drew those countries wrong. Pursell knew that from the sky’s view, the earth looks like patchwork.