In A Time of Exodus

Avery stood on the red gravel parking lot of the James Boys Saloon, which was not a saloon at all.  He walked around his truck and leaned against the tailgate.  The wind was blowing, as always.  The wheat in the field across the road was about ready to be harvested.

In his mind, as he looked out at the dust-covered farmland, he could see the year 1860.  He shifted his eyes to the store, its faded signs, broken shingles, and desperately elaborate statues of cowboys and bison.  He could see people inside; they were of a time before the Internet, electricity, refrigeration, heaters.  They drew their water with windmills from wells, and they busied themselves in the winters just to keep fed and warm.

Jesus, he thought.  What am I doing here?

The wind lifted his cap up, trying to send it flying into the wheat.  He caught it before it left his head; he removed it and held it.  The air was fresh, but on its wings came the smell of tar from roadwork on the highway a mile away.

He could see the year 1860.  He saw his red Chevrolet truck as a home-built wagon.  He saw the highway as ruts, the telephones as pens and paper, and the people as weathered-but-hardy men and women who were trying to survive in the relentless prairie.  He saw the wheat, too.  It was still wheat.

What am I doing here?  He was a homesteader in a time of abandonment. 

He was a pioneer in a time of exodus.  What am I doing here?