A thousand times have I passed by the U-Turn sign that would take one to the town of Superior.
It was on trip one thousand and one that I grabbed the steering wheel and took a hard right into creepy.
The clock was showing just past five o’ clock, but the empty street had signs that the workday had ended years ago.
The Arizona sun had beat down particularly hard here, as not even the scorpions were present on the dusty and crumbling buildings along Main Street.
I see the past frozen in a busted neon Bus sign, the faded artwork on the side of a hotel, the carcass of a picked over coyote lying in the gutter.
Motorcycles are circled like wagon wheels in front of what appears to be the only working establishment, the local bar. You can hear Mexican music crackling from a distant radio, and the clinking of beer bottles coming from inside.
Dark strangers look up from their drinks at me with harsh eyes.
I turn my attention to the sound of a car coming down the street. Two men with long, dirty hair whipping around their sunburned faces give me a look that stops my heart, then they disappear into the desert.
Superior is a place for lost souls to live out their retched and disturbed existence. That feels a little to comfortable for my liking.
I’m not yet ready to admit myself to this dark and haunting world, and hightail it out of Superior.
My soul is not yet ready to be confined in a prison of snake oil.