My dream home is a ranch outside of Santa Fe. I think it’s currently owned by a billionaire fashion mogul, and for $50 million, you get 20,000 acres of desert solitude. Not just any solitude, New Mexican solitude. I do love northern New Mexico. I love highways that zigzag on top of plateaus and overlook the Rio Grande.
To be blunt, I should be dead. Three years ago now—after a 14-hour flight, jet-lagged sleep, and breaking the heart of each leg of a love triangle—I fell asleep while driving on one of those highways with all of my possessions strapped down into the bed of my pickup. One of those concrete barriers woke me up. If fate had done what it was supposed to, then I imagine my violent death would’ve had confetti to go along with it: college papers and books drifting down on a twist of metal and a crumpled corpse.
But my truck didn’t have a scratch. Instead, I pulled into a casino parking lot. The air was still hot even though the sun had set, and I could see my engine’s heat. I remember feeling scared that I wasn’t all that scared. I should be fucking dead, man. Dead. That’s what I kept saying out loud to no one, but I didn’t really mean those words—I just felt like I was supposed to say them. After a few minutes of feeling dramatic enough, I hopped in my truck and finished the drive. After nearly seventeen hours of continuous driving, it took a mere thirty minutes to reach my destination.
And since I should be dead, I might as well be dead on a 20,000-acre ranch where they filmed westerns. A 20,000-acre ranch with a reflecting pool and circular stables. A 20,000-acre ranch with a ghost living on it.
Does anyone care to join me?