‘Leaving Crawford’

Dylan Hoover (he/him) is a fiction writer from Erie, PA. He graduated in 2023 from Allegheny College, where he earned a BA in English and Creative Writing. During the heart of the pandemic, he studied abroad at Lancaster University in England. There, he unearthed interests in British culture, as well as a passion to write historical fiction. Dylan’s fiction has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, and his forthcoming photography in Great Lakes Review. He currently is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. Instagram: dylhoov96

Leaving Crawford  

Megyn Griffin relished her early mornings at the front desk before guests wandered in for breakfast. She could gaze out toward the rolling hills and await the rumble and horn blats from the first train of the day. Many more followed, masked by traffic noise, but the first brought everything back into focus: another morning in Crawford, Arizona. Situated just off I-40, it sat  near Williams. That little city had dubbed themselves the “Gateway to the Grand Canyon,” their old-fashioned downtown bustling with tourists. 

Crawford, on the other hand, was the “Gateway to the Gateway.” Smaller by half, it relied on visitors who preferred lower rates and less kitsch, and the dazed interstate drivers who could not endure another highway mile without rest.

Coffee vapors steamed up around her face as Megyn studied a science book, aware that she was eighteen and a year behind on college plans. The delay? Her mother needed help to run the Mountain View Motel. 

A stern biker deposited his metal sand bucket ashtray by the office's desk. “See you next trip, young lady.” He headed for the raven-haired woman waiting on the back of his Harley.

Megyn was a young lady in Crawford. Maybe seventy teenagers, several dozen folks in their thirties or forties, and the majority of the population ranging from age sixty to death. 

She mouthed pleasantries to the guests checking-out, consciously skipping the free continental breakfast of spotted bananas, Wonder Bread with butter pads, and sweaty gray sausages lounging in a metal serving tray. 

Their utility guy came inside to stamp his feet. Still chilly in early April, dirty crusted snow on sidewalks, while larger pristine patches flecked green mountains in the distance. 

“Hey, Meg.” The steam of his outdoor breath dissipated in the heated interior. Brandon Carter was twenty, handsome, and a complete fool. Megyn had known him most of her life. Attended school together, made-out once three years ago, but she'd moved on. Megyn planned to go to college, then become a teacher or a nurse in a big city, while Brandon held delusions of Hollywood stardom.

Due to the scarcity of others in their age range, and since both were considered attractive, every Crawford adult had asked, “When are you two kids going to get together?” The gossip-starved neighbors were desperate to live vicariously through them. Megyn shrugged it off and only Brandon's continued eagerness bothered her.

“Thought about my proposal?” He yanked at his jacket, shaking off the cold.

Megyn laughed. “You were joking, right?” She slapped the guest book shut. Despite a computer in the back, they still signed travelers in by hand. “I'm too young.”

“I meant engagement for a year or two first.”

“Not getting married until I'm thirty, or near.”

Brandon lifted his baseball cap off then pressed it back on in frustration. “But it looks good on paper. Everyone says I'm the hottest guy in town, and when your braces are off, you'll be maybe the sweetest girl around.” His face soured when she laughed. “Why didn't you get your teeth fixed before?”

“They got really crooked at sixteen.” She eyed him. “What's your big rush anyway?”

“When I make it in Hollywood, I should have a wife. To seem regular to the public.”

“Seriously?” She snorted. “The answer is no.” Megyn switched to business mode. “There's a toilet clog in unit seven.”

He kicked a cowboy boot against the base of the office desk in frustration.

“Dude, please chill.” Megyn went to wipe down tables in the cramped dining area. “Anyways, everyone knows you're seeing the hag.”

“Don't call her that,” Brandon said. “Wendy Haggerty, and she's only fifty.”

Megyn didn't reply since fifty hit folks harder in the southwest. The spring winds, dust storms, and sunny, dry-ass climate were brutal. Another reason she planned to bail. People needed moisture, to sweat, have oil in their pores, or they'd wither and wrinkle away. Cigarette smoking didn't help Crawford residents look young either. So, a small population of baby-faced youths existed amongst grizzled elders with tales of the good old factory days. Megyn knew nothing of the factory, beyond that its demise had left a wake of bitter, desolate souls forever mumbling about it. Crawford was a ghost town in the making, haunted by humans in denial of the end being in plain sight.

“I'd drop Wendy the minute you agree.” Brandon waited for her reaction. “I was planning to end things soon anyways.”

Megyn turned from cleaning. “As if you're calling the shots.”

He grabbed the toilet plunger from behind the desk. “When you see my face on that billboard west of town, you'll be sorry.” Brandon slammed the office door behind him.

Megyn collected the departing guests' key cards. She was viewing colleges in Colorado on her laptop when the door bells jingled.

“Is it noon already, Mom?”

“Call me Candy,” her mother said. “I might be near fifty but I plan to remarry. Best not to reveal attachments right off.”

“Wow, I'm an attachment now.” Megyn gazed up from her screen. “You'd have to move to Flagstaff to meet anyone decent.” Her father died seven years ago at age forty-eight. Possibly cancer from working at the chemical plant in Joseph City. Candy wouldn't talk about it. The settlement paid off the motel, and that closed the book for her.

“There's eligible men around.” Candy sighed. “I'd just need to lose twenty pounds, get my hair done,” she stared outside, “and drive over to Ash Fork for weekly facials.” She shuddered. “I look older than my age.”

“No you don't, Candy.” Megyn hugged her mother, who often needed reassurance. “And stay away from Vern's Beauty Salon. She does permanent makeup stuff and gives brutal acid skin peels she isn't trained for.”

“Vern told me she has a cosmeceutical license.”

“Bet I can print you one of them from the internet right now.” She gathered her laptop, coffee mug, and books. Her mother worked noon to seven, then Megyn spelled her until the front desk closed at ten p.m. On Sundays and Mondays, her high school friend Skyler stepped-in so Megyn could have two days off.  

Not in a rush to do anything, Megyn slumped on the iron furniture set on the office's porch. The sun shone and it felt near sixty, but she kept her lined blue jean jacket fastened. High in the pine-covered mountains, they got some water from the snowmelt. It might hit 90 in the summer, but never the 110 degree hell of the arid plains and desert surrounding Phoenix.

When the familiar sputter and hum of a vintage Ford F-1 pickup approached, she didn't have to look up.

“Hey, young lady. Need a ride? Not that there's anywhere to go in this godforsaken shithole.”

Cole Jepson, the only local that Megyn admired. Tragic, him being fifty-six, but she'd adopted him as her uncle. His hair a wild tangle, thick and graying, with a gritty beard sprouting on his chin. He looked pummeled by life, but had once been something. Blue eyes still clear and boyish despite the weathered face. The fact that his book of poetry was published by a New York publisher in his thirties was what impressed Megyn. Crawford didn't have celebrities, but he was a notable person. Educated. Spoke in clear sentences. 

“Sure.” She hopped in. “Take me to the DQ.” Across the railroad tracks lay the derelict east side of town. Mostly shuttered businesses and tumble-down homes. Leftover reminders of  Crawford's past.

They reached the Dairy Queen's deserted lot and Cole parked. Megyn stared at the hollow structure, the frame and insignia still there. She could close her eyes and imagine the ice cream flavors, being driven over by her mother when she was younger. “It's so weird,” she said, “to feel nostalgia when you're still a teen.”

Cole laughed, pushing a mess of hair back from his brow. “Never cared for it myself.” He squinted toward a barren, weedy patch of land with a damaged screen rising above it. “I do miss the drive-in though. That was a blast, back in the day.”

“I barely remember it. Closed when I was ten, I think.”

“But you've been since then...”

The abandoned parking lot served as a make-out spot for high school kids. “Well, maybe once or twice.”

“Who can blame you?” He rustled around in his seat. “Hope you're still—”

“Leaving Crawford? Hell, yes,” she said. “Waiting on three colleges. They send acceptances soon.” Megyn noticed Cole's mouth twitch like he knew what she was about to ask.

“Why did you come back? I mean, New York City. You were published, gave readings, could have been a poetry teacher at Columbia or some liberal arts college.” She gazed at him. “It kills me being here, and I'm not even nineteen.”

“New York scared me,” Cole replied. “I couldn't take it.”

“You? You're not scared of anything.” She shook her head. “I saw you bounce that mean drifter who wouldn't leave the Mountain View.” She tapped his hand. “And when a steer got loose on Main Street. Who cleared it off? Not our useless sheriff.”

“That's different.” Cole played with an unlit cigarette. “I can deal with things, one on one. New York is filled with people, buildings, streets, cars and buses, voices crying out. Pent-up emotions and frustrations and violence coming from everywhere.” He raised his fists like a boxer. “I couldn't fight it. Sapped my energy.” His head bowed. “Guess I'm a coward.”

Megyn punched his shoulder hard. “You are not. Go write some new poems. I read your first book all the time. You have talent. Just need to get out of Crawford.”

He coughed. “Nah, I'm a blown gasket.”

“I am not listening.” She cranked open the passenger door and jumped out. “I'm walking home from here.”

“Hey, wait.” He puttered the old Ford along beside her.

Megyn put on headphones and blasted the music. She waved Cole on ahead by the hulking closed factory. It once made wire hangars and metal hooks and nothing that made any sense to a teenager in the 21st century. 

Brandon finished his duties by two p.m. Hammered window screens back into place, plunged two toilets, and added touch-up paint outside the motel units. Left him four hours to kill. 

The Mountain View had created two-room suites in the smaller side of the L-shaped building. More expensive but they'd become popular. At six, Brandon served drinks in the outdoor patio area until seven-thirty. Possibly illegal, but the local police chose not to interfere. Candy was trying to bring tourists into town, who would stay at motels, buy food at restaurants, overpriced gas, and be given parking and speeding tickets. It would be anti-business, against Crawford's survival to enforce the letter of the law. Brandon claimed to be twenty-one so he could bartend.

A Los Angeles film producer was staying in a suite, with two female assistants in the adjoining one. Yesterday, Simon Maybank told Brandon he had natural good looks and vaguely resembled a young Tom Cruise when he smiled. Simon wanted to talk more tonight after he returned from scouting film locations.

Brandon pressed Wendy Haggerty's number.

“You done for the day, slugger?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He never knew what to say to her. “What's going on?”

Wendy laughed with a whiskey rasp. “Nothing. Be at the semi-trailer in thirty.”

“Do we have to meet there?”

“We can't go to your parents' place, and Gil's around here,” she said. “He might not walk anymore, but his hearing is good.”

“Yeah, okay, I just thought—”

“We have to be discreet.”

“Everybody in town knows, Wendy.”

“See you soon.”

At seventy-one, Gil Haggerty had suffered two strokes in the last years. The second requiring a wheelchair and an attendant to bathe him. Gil's wealth allowed his purchase of acreage on the north side of the interstate a decade ago. His initial plans to raise crops or keep livestock failed, due to the hilly terrain with dramatic rises and falls. Not good for planting, while cattle preferred to graze on level grassy fields. 

Halfway up the highest rise of his property on the western border of Crawford sat a semi-trailer. The cargo compartment from an 18-wheeler Gil owned. Across its metallic flank, painted in seven foot letters was: TRUMP 2024. It had been propped there since it first read 2020. In whatever direction one traveled on the interstate, this mammoth container and its message were clearly visible. 

Brandon drove his Toyota pickup along the winding tread that dead-ended behind the semi-trailer. He wet his dark hair back with bottled water, then knocked on the loading doors.

“It's open,” Wendy yelled.

Inside, lay a queen-sized mattress. A dim battery-powered lamp glowed while a boombox played maybe Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey. Brandon didn't know old pop music. Wendy was propped on an elbow in her underwear. She drank Jack Daniels from the bottle. “Let's get going.” 

Brandon stripped. Wendy Haggerty possessed a stunning figure, something out of 1950s films, curves jutting in every direction. Her body was legendary in town, provoking gasps and stares of wonder—even from young children. However, something happened to her face. The baby fat had drained away, highlighting her father's wide flat nose and her mother's lantern jaw. Now, her eyes appeared sunken into their sockets, and they showed a combination of rage and fear, as if aware they were sinking.

Brandon kneeled onto the mattress edge. “Feel like talking first?”

Her face reddened. “Do locals call me... the hag?”

“Nobody says that, not around me.” Just a white lie this time. Brandon reached a hand out to caress her.

“Don't!” She rolled over. “Okay, let's get going.”

Brandon had been confused. Sure, he liked women, and planned to marry a normal pretty one, soon as Megyn agreed. But lately, he'd been watching cowboy movies on TCM while he worked. He wanted to know those rugged, lanky men, ride horses with them, share a bunkhouse. At present, he could stare at Wendy's shoulder blades and abstract it. He closed his eyes, imagining crisp blue jeans and shiny leather saddles. 

“That's it?” Wendy craned her neck sideways. “Well, save the rest for your little girlfriend down at the Mountain View.”

Brandon dressed quickly. “She's not my—”

“I don't care.” Wendy covered herself with a sheet. 

Brandon wandered out to the Toyota, blinded by the sudden blast of afternoon sunlight. The peak of his life; he deserved better.

Arriving at the Mountain View just before six, he put on a clean white shirt, a bolo tie, and a dark server's vest. Then he mixed drinks on the terrace fronting the motel's deluxe units. 

The producer, Simon Maybank, entertained two older German couples on outdoor furniture padded with pillows. When the couples trekked off to Crawford's center for dinner, Simon beckoned Brandon over.

“Foreign investors,” he whispered. “I'm always raising money. You know, films aren't cheap.” Simon signaled his assistants and they retreated into their suite.

“So you're a producer?” Brandon sat at the edge of his seat, chest jutting forward.

“Producer, director, location scout.” Simon studied Brandon while finishing a Vodka Collins. “And what's your plan?”

Brandon coughed. “I want to star in a franchise, like Harrison Ford did with Indiana Jones.”

“Really? Who would your character be?”

Brandon flashed his dazzling smile. “Zack Bone, a gym coach by day, but after PE class, I put on a cowboy hat and become... Eldorado Bones.” He glanced over for affirmation.

Simon winced, head tilted slightly. “You did go to high school and maybe Crawfish College, right?”

“I'm just twenty-one, but I graduated Ash Fork High last year, in the top 100% of my class.”

Simon grinned. “It's getting dark. Why don't you clean up the bar then we'll talk in my room.” He refilled his drink and vanished within.

Brandon rolled the bar cart on wheels across the main street, setting it back into the motel office. Megyn looked up from her studies and stifled a laugh at his outfit.

“I'm onto something,” he said. “Listen, can we meet tomorrow?”

“Not another proposal.” She rolled her eyes.

“No, just to hang out. Remember years ago, we'd watch the trains go by at sunset?”

“When you got me high and tried to—”

“No.” He sighed. “I just wanted to talk like we used to do.”

Megyn flattened her book open on the counter. “Sure, okay. Nothing else going on.”

Outside, Brandon primped in his Toyota's rearview mirror before knocking on Simon's suite.

“Come in.” The producer reclined on his king bed, barefoot and wearing a silk bathrobe. “Make yourself comfortable.” Four candles burned in the dimly lit room.

Brandon perched on a chair, keeping his chin thrust out, as he'd practiced.  

“So this is how Hollywood works,” Simon said. “You do extra parts, non-speaking, then you get a line, maybe two. If you move right and speak well, you could get a character role for some screen time.” He paused. “With adventure scripts, the way in is as a stunt man. If you can survive flaming car crashes without sustaining heavy bodily damage, then you're a shoo-in for an action movie.”

“I couldn't find any of your films on Google.”

“Ever heard of Fast and Furious?”

“You produced those movies?”

“No, Slick and Serious, the knock-off series. Huge in Taiwan and Jakarta.” Simon tugged at an earlobe. “Anyway, someone has to put in a good word for you. You do something for them and they help you out in return, right?”

“Yeah, I guess...” 

“For instance, I could use a back massage.” Simon untied his bathrobe.

Brandon turned away. He'd played sports and showered with the team, but never seen a man so pink and hairless—it confused him. Maybe Brandon just liked cowboys.

“What's the matter?”

Brandon shuffled toward the door. “I need to consider things.”

“My card is on the table. Call me, but only when you're ready.”

Megyn finished her shift all tangled-up. She had wanted to ask Cole to go sit atop the water tower at dusk and watch the first stars appear in the night sky. Cole had never acted weird with her since she turned eighteen, but what if he did? How would she gently say no without ruining their friendship? And what if she felt cold after sunset and leaned on him, giving him a signal. She was mixed-up and needed affection, or at least understanding in a decaying, lonely town. Cole might go along if she started something and that would be awful. Or he might fend her off and then she'd feel mortally insulted. Or worse, they might just sit there. So she couldn't ask him to join her, and yet there was no one else to ask. Skyler would only tag along if a beer or weed was involved. She didn't understand starlight, poetry, or anything important.

The door bells jingled at noon when Megyn expected her mother.

Instead, Cole stood there grinning. “Thought we could drive over to Ash Fork, get you lunch, and well, breakfast for me.”

She moved her mouth around her braces. “I'm real busy with college stuff.” She couldn't make eye contact. “Maybe it's best to skip our adventures this spring. Distracts me from studying.” Megyn gazed up. Cole had already turned away, but she could tell by his sagging posture she'd hurt his feelings.

The pickup truck's engine faded to the west, and she wiped away tears when Candy came to spell her.

“What's wrong, darling?” Candy embraced her. “Did Brandon Carter insult you? I will slap some ugly into that dumb-ass pretty boy.”

“No.” Megyn sniffled. “What if I get stuck here forever?” She didn't mention the rejection that came in the morning mail.

“You're almost nineteen and those three colleges will be fighting over you.”

Megyn slept the whole afternoon then took a sick day the following morning. Imposed a 24-hour delay on Brandon's “let's hang out” plan, because who cared when they met? Every day felt the same in Crawford. A total bummer.

Just before six when Brandon was due, she ran west to the Grand Canyon Tavern. Make things right. The vintage Ford sat parked just outside. Underage for a bar, she tapped on the frosted window of the historic tavern until she got Cole's attention.

He shuffled out, expression stern. “Never interrupt a man mid-beverage.”

“Just wanted to talk for a sec.”

“I brought something for you inside my truck.”

Megyn slid into the passenger seat.

“Wrote this poem last night.” He reached over her to the glove compartment. “Printed it out and everything.”

She tucked the folded paper into her pants' back pocket. “Write ten more.” 

“Jesus. Tough lady.”

Megyn set the door ajar, preparing to dash. “You know Skyler?”

“Of course. She's, what do they call it, your bestie, your BFF?”

“Nope. She's my girl, my pal.” Megyn paused. “You're my bestie.”

Cole seemed startled, then frowned. “Buzz Skagmeyer might not like that.” He glanced toward the bar's window. “We been drinking together since long before you came around.”

Megyn gave him the finger, smiling. Then she thumped the top of the pickup goodbye and went skipping back toward the Mountain View.

Brandon's Toyota waited by the motel units. The film people had checked-out, so no bar set-up outdoors. “Don't you look all happy,” he said. “I thought you were sick yesterday. What, did Aunt Flo visit?” He laughed—alone.

“Let's go.” She jumped in and turned on the radio. “Just so you know, we're not fooling around or nothing tonight.”

“Jesus, you think I've got a one-crack mind? Hey, truce, okay?”

“Sure.” 

Brandon parked near the strip of woods that bordered the railroad tracks. Trains ran hourly, except for a flurry between six and eight. He spread a blanket and unwrapped a tuna fish sandwich, then offered her half. He'd brought beers, but Megyn just wanted sips from his. The ground shook when a westbound cargo train rumbled by.

“We'll be better-off if McDonald's comes,” he said. “Maybe an IHOP too. Then a train station to bring more tourists here from the Grand Canyon.”

“We're twelve miles from Williams. They can't have stops in every little town.” Brandon's bottle rim tasted of tuna but she didn't care. Made it feel like camping out, roughing it. “Anyway, you're going to Hollywood. Did that producer—”

“He gave me his card.” Brandon stared away. “It's a weird world. But if I became a star, I'd come back to Crawford.”

“Why?”

“To show everyone who thought I was a stupid loser that they were wrong.”

“You want to be a movie star just for spite, to get back at people?”

“Yeah, of course.” He swigged his beer. “But I'd buy land here too. Make improvements.”

“A trailer-bed on every hillside?”

“Jesus. I'm trying to be for real tonight.”

Megyn punched his arm softly. “You are.” She finished eating.

Another horn sounded as an eastbound train approached. This one came slow, a jangle of ratcheting freight cars, the squeal of brakes. They watched it stagger along, passing them gradually. The line of boxy containers were rusty, discolored, graffiti-marked, and ugly as hell, but in that moment, the most beautiful thing Megyn had ever seen. She counted twenty cars. “I could walk along and keep up.” And she did just that.

“Hey, where you going?” Brandon trailed behind her. 

Megyn jogged faster then jumped up on the edge of an empty freight wagon. So easy, so fun!

“Get off there,” Brandon shouted. “What about us?” His words were soon drowned out by the rattle and locomotion. Leaving a stick figure waving his arms.

The train accelerated through the pine tree dusk until she couldn't see him anymore. The clanking give-and-take of section couplings and metal wheel tremble overwhelmed everything else. As the dazzle of starlight showed overhead, she felt euphoric, totally high. Three-hundred bucks lay scrunched in her purse. Not enough for anything of consequence, but whether practice or a dress rehearsal for her eventual escape, she'd ride it through to Flagstaff. A few days there to clear her head. Unfolding Cole's poem, Megyn squinted in the dying light. Just seventeen words. 

Leaving Crawford: 

Right away, damn it. Sooner.

Don't you ever come back! (Like I did...)

Not never.

End

Max Talley was born in New York City and lives in Southern California. His writing has appeared in Vol.1 Brooklyn, Atticus Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, Litro, and The Saturday Evening Post. Talley's collection, My Secret Place, was published in 2022 and When The Night Breathes Electric, debuted from Borda Books in 2023. "Leaving Crawford" will be featured in Talley's story collection, Destroy Me Gently, Please coming from Serving House Books in June 2025.