then there the west was, wasting space with all its obvious places. its dust and deadly colored canyons contrast against the blind horizon and winds scratch the orange earth 'cross the highway where sands storm above the asphalt. a tall tale town name on a roadside sign made me mark that lot of desert dirt as dearer than the rest. another spot we stopped to see what the map key had left nameless. the thing was past the arizona border on a hilltop. the billboards kept the mileage, lapping our dashboard's lazy meter. for a dollar each, two dollars, we went back behind the gift shop. we saw it. what we saw, whatever it was: a poor man's mummy, or just some unfunny something saved to excite the guidebook. the last exit for kitsch to busy kids amid boring badlands. before we left, I bought a cottonwood kachina—icon of the hopi eschaton remembered from my mom's mother's odd collection I'd known too young to reckon magick. the doll—no toy— my blue paint face feather-haloed saint with toothpick spear and dyed leather gear whips stars out of skies. the little card the cashier supplies says so and why, claims the end is nigh. he packs it up in styrofoam.
Daniel Barnum, The Thing