#38: desert dispatch (3)

home sweet home (or something like it)

Day 5.

I made it out of temporary housing and into my own personal shipping container.

The walls are sludge-grey blue and a harsh white light buzzes overhead. The hard metal floor is topped with thin pressed foam with a fake wood grain. Next to the door, there’s a single window clouded over with grit. I pull the nylon strap that controls the exterior shutter shade, releasing a plume of dust that settles across my duffel bags.

The 6’ x 14’ room comes with a creaky metal bed frame; a mattress of indeterminate use; a tall tan wall locker; a mini fridge; a noisy wall-mounted A/C unit; two short, mismatched wood-laminate side cabinets; and a singular black waiting room-style chair. When the housing attendant leaves, I wipe everything down in a frenzy, afraid of previous occupants’ germs and the long-term effects of dust inhalation. I cannot bear to glance at the mattress. A heaviness sits in my stomach as I remind myself that I should feel thankful—this space is private, and privacy is a privilege—especially when more tenured coworkers are relegated to two- or four-person rooms and chaotic shower trailers.

My “pod” is perched on the second level next to a staircase. Past twenty identical rooms, 120 feet from my door, is the nearest women’s restroom. Walking to and fro in the heat of the day, portions of the oxidized metal walkway wobble and warp under my weight. On such strolls, I note attempts at personalization and home-making: magnets, stickers, cheap dollar-store “lanterns” adorning doors; dusty welcome mats, carpet scraps, and long-forgotten wifi antennae serving neither aesthetic nor practical purpose.

pod city

Back in my room, I gaze out my lone window at the bleak sight: all sides of the pod compound are surrounded by twenty-foot T-walls. Beyond them, oil field towers stand resilient and mirage-like amidst dunes and nothingness. It dawns on me that—although danger feels imminent—I’m safer here than in my own country.

towering T-walls, dumpsters, perimeter, and beyond

Opposite the barren vista, tucked underneath an unassuming maintenance tent, hides a granule of familiarity, my sole tether to “normalcy”: the world’s most prolific coffee chain. That the pervasively American brand translates across continents and through barbed borders strikes me as divine. I could fall to my knees, weeping at the register as though it were an altar, homesick for the first time in my life.

But when they botch my cold brew order, the illusion dissolves, and an uneasy equilibrium returns.

lured by the looks of the siren

The rest of my one day off is spent rearranging the furniture. Feng shui is unachievable. Ultimately, I drag my bed to the center of the far wall and place the stocky cabinets on either side as makeshift nightstands. With deep apprehension, I make my bed with my cheap floral sheets, pushing out thoughts of proper mattress cleaning protocols.

I wipe everything down again for good measure and, exhausted, focus on the buzz of the A/C until sleep finally takes me.