The Devil's Golf Course.

Sunset in Death Valley. Heat - so strong and thick you can feel it wrap around you like wool. Heat that makes your shirt stick and your head pound.

Dave was in the Watering Hole, looking at his guidebook. Baseball was on, air conditioning was broken, and sweat was rolling off just about everyone. He held a slippery bottle of Coors in his hand. It was wet but not cold enough. Nothing could be cold enough. Everything smelt somehow of brine, and the sugary perfume of made-up old ladies, laughing at their tables.

The waitress was a cute girl with big eyes, tied back blonde hair and crooked teeth. Dave liked the teeth. He could’ve used some company, he be’d on his own, and there was no one else that young in the middle of the valley. He drained his weak beer, and nodded along to the music, pretending not to look lonely. A couple of guys cheered. A home run on the TV.

Ya want another? asked the girl.

Sure, said Dave.

He looked at her from behind as he walked, and there was a coiling inside him. She exchanged a few words with a man at the bar, whose sweat ran down from his temples past his ears and under his chin. He cracked a joke and she threw her head back in a laugh, revealing a pale white neck - delicate as china. Then, she came over with his beer.

Five dollars sir, she said.

No problem.

He handed her some damp bills from his back pocket.

Do you live round here? he asked.

Na. I just work summers. I go to college up in Carson City. Ya know it?

No. Sounds nice.

I guess it is. Where ya from? British?

Yeah, London.

I coulda guessed, she said. Cute accent.

Dave laughed and looked her in the eye as he took a sip, hoping it would be suggestive. Another cheer from the TV, another home run or whatever. He stopped caring about the sweat round his ears a long time ago. His shirt felt like tissue. The air conditioner shunted into life for a second and everybody drew a breath. Then it died and an old man in the corner slapped his knee.

Dave and the girl smiled at each other.

So what do you think I should go see? I’m only here a couple of days.

She rolled her eyes upwards and bit her lip.

There’s a nice ranch up at Furnace Creek, and some nice viewpoints up in Bishop, I guess. Also, Mono Lake’s supposed to be nice this time of year - oh! Heck, The Devil’s Golf Course’s the place to go!

She pulled a lock of hair in front of her eyes.

I mean, obviously. Everyone knows that. Its just...well, it’s embarassing, but I’ve come here for four summers and I’ve never been.

Never?

Never. Always workin.

She looked back at the bar, to see if people were waiting. It was getting busier, the evening rush of tourists, hikers and horse riders was coming, the sweat patches on their shirts shaped like islands on a map.
Dave made a snap decision.

Listen, he said, I’m driving there tonight. Come with me after work.

She bit her lip.

I dunno, she said, I get off at eleven.

That’s perfect. They say that’s the best time for the stars.

Again she looked over her shoulder at the bar.

I dunno. Sounds nice an all...

Come on, come with me. Have some fun with your summer. See something beautiful.

She blushed.

Hmm. Okay. Meet me outside at one.

Great. See you later Marcy.

She looked at Dave with an open mouth and furrowed brow.

Nametag, he said.

Oh! Marcy’s laughter was all breath. Well there ya go!

I’m Dave.

She went on serving and he finished his beer. Outside, he walked on the deck in front of the bar and held his neck out to the jets of cooling spray. Fat tourists were flocking towards the pool under a melon-pink sky. A woman with long red nails, a blonde perm and tea-stained skin snored in front of her RV. In the resort, a Hispanic housekeeper did the rounds on a green golf buggy.

Dave bought a taco at the store and some cigarettes and a six pack for later.

-

Midnight, and they were tearing down a dirt track through the desert. Marcy, already drunk, asked Dave to drive without headlights. He was surprised by her sudden adventurousness.

Isn’t that dangerous?

Probably, but I wanna see the stars!

She cracked open a beer can and puckered her lips to the foam.

But what if there are other cars?

There won’t be any this time of night. They’ll have their lights on, anyway.

Dave grinned. He switched off his headlights and held his hand out for a beer.

Drink driver? She gasped theatrically. I dunno.

She slipped a beer into his hand.

The moonlight was enough to drive by. It lit the desert in shades of blue, navy to powder, and picked out patterns of shadow on the mountains. The tracks skirted spurs of rock. Now and again the land opened up, and the ground was honeycombed with drought.

Marcy had changed into a denim skirt and checked shirt after work. Dave couldn’t keep his eyes on the road as he drove. Every time she spoke, there was that familiar sense of pressure on his lungs. He caught glimpses of the moonlit brilliance of her legs, and thought he could make out the down on her thighs. Each glimpse he took lasted a little longer. Part of him hoped she would notice.

Dave sipped his beer, keeping one hand on the wheel. Cans were a mistake in Death Valley. Unless you had a cooler the heat turned them to soup, all stale and sour. He looked at Marcy, who had stopped talking for a little while.

Hey, didn’t you want to see the stars?

Oh, yeah.

Well slide that sunroof open.

She did as she was told and brought her bright neck and collar to his face. She smelt of sweat, beer and something chemical - deodorant, not perfume.

There ya go.

She pushed the sunroof open and let in a flash of air, hairdryer-warm. The car was going too fast to see any but the brightest stars. Dave took another sip from the can; he was as eager to look carefree as he was to stay sober.

How the stars looking?

He took a sidelong glance at her. Her head was twisted upwards, looking through the sunroof. Dave took in her brittle, birdlike face, the shallow of darkness between her neck and her collar, the matt brilliance of the blonde hair that fell. He felt the car veer left and corrected it, steering with a hand and a half.

Can’t really see em, she said.

She shifted, revealing the dark strap across her shoulder. Dave gripped the wheel tight, and took another sip. Her shirt was loosely buttoned.

Well, he said. Maybe when we get there.

-

The dirt trail became a gravel road as they approached the Devil’s Golf Course. Marcy was going through Dave’s CDs (I dunno any of these guys) when it came into view, a burning white salt pan, spread calm and flat as a lake between distant mountain ridges. A sign marked how far below sea level they were sinking as they sloped towards it. 50ft, 100ft, 150ft all passed. There was a small car park at the bottom of a winding decline, marked only by a broad rectangle of rope, penned in by information signs and a cabin. The place was as Dave had hoped: deserted.

Marcy had gradually grown quiet as they approached. When Dave caught her eye she would smile obligingly, but now and then caught her tilting forwards, and blinking for longer than usual. It was obvious that she had drunk too much.

They parked. The silence, once the roar of the gravel and the growl of the engine had stopped, was deafening.

Dave got out and read a sign by moonlight.

Hey. Here we are - 282 feet. The lowest point in the States. Hottest too. We are way, way beneath the sea-

He smiled. Marcy had not left the car.

He went over to her door and opened it.

Come on. Let’s go out there.

She frowned.

I dunno Dave, can we stay here? Just for a little while.

Why?

Its nice, an I’ve been at work. Don’t feel like walkin.

Dave smiled with feigned sympathy.

Come on, do you really want to sit in the tourist car park in the middle of the night?

I dunno.

We’ll take the rest of the beers, and sit in the middle of the pan, and look at the sky. It’ll be beautiful.

She glanced at her watch.

Aw ok, but just for a little while.

They walked out into the pan. For fifty feet or so the ground was worn smooth by the footsteps of daytime tourists. Then, as they walked further, they felt the crunch of the salt crystals underfoot. Marcy’s steps were slow and uncertain, and Dave decided to lead her by the hand. They both cracked open their beers. Marcy was drinking mechanically, taking long unbroken swigs. Dave could see he she was uncomfortable, tense. A silk breeze played with her hair. For a moment, it smelt like the seaside.

Let’s sit here, he said.

She nodded and sat.

Look at those stars.

The longer they looked at the sky the more stars appeared. The spaces between stars became filled with stars, and the spaces between those were filled once more. Dave wondered if it was because he could just see them, or if he knew they were there.

Never seen better stars than around here, Dave said.

Me either, said Marcy without enthusiasm. She took another thirsty drink from her beer.

Dave tried to keep up conversation, he needed her to be relaxed.

I don’t know constellations, he said. Except that one, the Great Bear.

The what?

The Great Bear.

Ya mean the big dipper?

Probably.

There was silence. Marcy watched the sky, and Dave watched Marcy. She was leaning back on her elbows, and her legs stretched out towards him. A rumble of rocks sounded in the stillness.

Sounds like a roadrunner, said Dave.

Yeah.

Dave half heartedly looked around to spot it. There was nothing but salt and rocks, and his car next to the cabin.

Hey listen Marcy.

Uh huh?

Reckon you could do one thing for me?

Marcy turned to look at Dave. His brow shaded his eyes from the moonlight.

Um. Sure. What’s that?

Can I kiss you? Please.

Marcy stared into the hole of her beer can, and pulled herself upright, crossing her legs.

Hey, listen, Dave...you’re cute, and all, but...

It’s ok. Don’t worry.

Dave finished his can in one.

Forget I asked, ok?

She smiled sympathetically. Her hair fell in front of her eyes.

Sure. Maybe we should go back.

They stood up and walked back to the car. The naked silence only amplified Dave’s embarrassment. He tapped Marcy lightly on the back.

Hey. I’m sorry.

She tapped him lightly back.

It’s ok.

They got back to the parking lot and Marcy sat on the bonnet of the car while Dave rummaged in his glove box.

Hey, he said. Do you smoke?

Sometimes.

Dave found his pack of Luckies and slammed the car door. The sound reverberated across the desert like a gunshot. Marcy winced, giggled, and took the cigarette.

Don’t mind if I do.

She took one and lent forward as he offered his lighter. He sparked it up-

A scream. Something hard tore Dave’s stomach from left to right - he felt a heat and a thickening wetness. His T- shirt stuck. He felt his throat fill.

Fuck it, Kenny! said Marcy. Why y’always gotta make it so dramatic?

-

Sunset in Death Valley, three days later. Kenny was in the Watering Hole, washing down a cold Budweiser. He gazed upon the signed photographs of famous people who had visited. They were all baseball players and country singers. He felt the tepid sweat drip down from his temples and past his ears. Perspiration itched in the raw patches of stubble under his jaw. Sunset was just the part that separated doing nothing in the day from doing nothing in the night.

He looked over at Marcy she was working her hands to the bone. Bored as hell, he could tell.

Tonight was music night, and as always Tex came in to sing some country western. He played pedal steel to a backing track on CD. He was from Bakersfield, not Texas, and he wasn’t fooling anyone.

In between songs a young guy came in. He looked about twenty-five, and was wearing a Yosemite National Park T-shirt, shorts and flip flops. He was alone.

Marcy seated him with a smile and a laugh.