Ponies Don’t Exist on the Blinking Range

By Jeffery Allen Tobin

Red lights on the range blinked like tired eyes, like something trying to stay awake just a little longer. Like a lion. Like its prey.

The wind came through the gaps in the siding, cutting across the little trailer like a blade. Lane sat at the flimsy kitchen table with his feet on the chair across from him, listening to the radio because it was easier than listening to himself think. The announcer was talking about a high school basketball game up in Elko, calling it like it mattered to the world.

Lane wished he could believe in something that much.

The trailer park sat at the edge of a desert town too small to be worth a name. There was a gas station, a bar, and a grocery store that sold too many cans and not enough fresh food. The Range—just a stretch of nothing dotted with rusted cars and broken fences—spread out behind the park, radio towers stand against the sky like busted ribs.

He’d lived here seven years. That was never the plan, but then again, there was never really a plan. He’d meant to be passing through, meant to get on with things. But “things” had a way of not happening, and the next thing he knew, he had a past in a place he never meant to stay.

His job wasn’t all that bad. Nights at the truck stop, watching the same people come through, refilling coffee, making change for diesel. The only bad part was knowing that no one ever looked at him too hard. He was part of the scenery, like the cracked linoleum and the buzzing fluorescent light above the register.

He looked at his hands, rough and cracked, dirt under the nails from helping Joe fix a generator that afternoon. It hadn’t needed fixing, not really, but Joe liked to keep busy, and Lane figured that was better than standing around thinking.

Outside, the wind pushed against the walls again. He took a sip of his beer, the cheap kind that tasted like aluminum, and thought about the things he used to believe in—like getting out of here, like starting over, like the idea that maybe something good was still waiting for him somewhere.

But that was years ago. Now, he just sat in the half-dark, watching the tower lights blink, telling himself he’d get up and do something about it. Maybe tomorrow.

***

Lane sat in the diner off the highway, a mile from the truck stop where he worked. It was the kind of place with old cigarette burns in the laminate counters, where the waitress called everyone “hon” with that beautifully hollow meaning, and where the coffee was always stale but still the best thing on the menu. He came here on nights off when the trailer felt like it was caving in. The walls there had a way of pressing against him, making his failures feel bigger, louder.

He was halfway through his coffee when Jerry slid into the booth across from him. Jerry had been in town even longer than Lane, a man with a back that bent like he was always expecting a hit, hair gone in uneven patches, and a voice like a cigarette put out in whiskey.

“Jesus, you look like hell,” Jerry said, signaling to the waitress for a refill. “I thought you had tonight off.”

“I do.” Lane took a sip. “Just didn’t wanna be home.”

Jerry nodded like he understood. He probably did.

“You still working the truck stop?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever think about getting out of here?”

Lane let out a breath. It was the kind of question people asked when they already knew the answer.

“Where would I go?”

Jerry laughed, a tired sound.

“Hell if I know. But somewhere, right? Anywhere?”

He poured two sugar packets into his coffee, stirred it with the back end of his spoon.

“I was gonna leave last year, you know. Had a plan and everything.”

Lane waited, even though he already knew how the story ended. Jerry was still here, wasn’t he? Am I here for this right now?

“Had this cousin in Reno,” Jerry went on. “Said he could get me a job at a dealership. Not selling cars or anything, just in the back, fixing shit up. Sounded all right. But then my car broke down, and I didn’t have enough money to fix it, so I figured I’d stay and save up. Then my knee went bad, and I had to see a doctor, and that cleaned me out. And then a year passed.” He stirred his coffee again, though the sugar had already dissolved. “Funny how that happens.”

Lane watched the blinking lights from the highway reflect in the diner window. “Yeah.”

The waitress came by, set a plate of hash browns in front of Jerry. He ate slow, pushing the food around with his fork.

“You remember that girl you used to see? Tracy?”

Lane tightened his grip on his coffee cup.

“What about her?”

Jerry shrugged.

“Heard she got out. Moved to Idaho, got a job at a bank or something. Married some guy who sells insurance.”

Lane felt something twist in his chest, something that had been buried for a long time. Tracy used to talk about leaving, about how this place would eat you alive if you let it. He thought she was being dramatic, but maybe she had believed in herself enough for both of them.

“She always wanted more,” Lane said.

Jerry snorted. “Guess she got it.” He took another bite, chewing slow. “You still thinking about trying for that construction gig?”

Lane shook his head. “They ain’t hiring.”

Jerry didn’t say anything. They both knew that wasn’t true. Lane could have tried harder, made some calls, pushed. But pushing was exhausting. It was easier to let the days slip by, to do the things you always did, because change required effort, and effort required hope, and hope was something Lane had stopped carrying a long time ago.

They sat in silence for a while, the hum of the diner filling in the empty spaces. Outside, a truck rumbled past, taillights glowing red against the dark. Jerry checked his watch, drained the rest of his coffee.

“Well,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I gotta open up tomorrow. You need a ride?”

Lane shook his head. “I’ll walk.”

Jerry studied him for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but he just nodded.

“All right. Try not to rot away in here.”

Lane watched him go, the bell above the door jingling as he stepped out into the night. He thought about Tracy, about Jerry’s busted knee, about the blinking lights. He thought about the way the desert could stretch for miles and still feel like a cage.

The waitress came by, refilled his cup.

“You need anything else, hon?”

Lane shook his head.

“Nah. I’m good.”

But he wasn’t. And he knew it.

***

The walk home was long, the kind that made a man start thinking in interminable circles. The blinking range stretched out in the dark, the red lights rising and falling like breath. Lane kicked a rock down the dirt road, listened to the crunch of his boots on the gravel. Somewhere behind him, a truck growled down the highway, fading until the desert swallowed the sound whole.

When he reached his trailer, he didn’t go inside. Instead, he sat on the steps, a cigarette between his fingers, watching the lights blink on and off. He used to tell himself they were signals, some kind of code for the people who were still moving, still going somewhere. Now, they just felt like a reminder. A tally of nights wasted.

A rustling sound came from across the lot. Jerry’s old Ford was parked two trailers down, and Jerry was leaning against it, lighting a cigarette. “You just gonna sit there all night?” he called.

Lane exhaled smoke.

“Maybe.”

Jerry walked over, hands in his jacket pockets.

“Got an idea,” he said. “Feel like driving?”

Lane flicked his cigarette into the dirt.

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

Lane considered that. The thought of moving, even without a destination, felt like something. He pushed himself up, dusted off his jeans.

“You got gas money?”

Jerry grinned. “Hell no.”

Lane laughed, the sound surprising even himself. He looked back at his trailer, the door he’d been about to walk through, the bed he’d been about to sink into, the same night replaying. Then he looked at Jerry, his busted-up truck, the road stretching through the range.

“All right,” Lane said. “Let’s go.”

They climbed in, the truck rattling to life under them. As they pulled onto the highway, the lights of the range faded in the rearview, swallowed by the dark.