ROMEO’S THE COOLEST SPOT IN THE DESERT
A short story by Alex James Taylor

In the south-west of the Chihuahuan Desert, where Highway 30 meets 49, let your mind drift and reality lift. Locate the vanishing point and hit automatic shift. It’s here they dub the Zone of Silence, a place where radio signals scramble and compasses spin out of control.

At parallels 26 and 28, between the flamingo cactus and the cobalt 57 indentation, the sunset strobes into the vermillion stutter of a neon ‘R’ and the vague outline of a building blinks into existence. For haven’t you heard? Any good dive deserves a narrative drive.

Regular shapes in an irregular world. An ellipse canopy illuminates the passing eclipse and a sign rotates into being:
ROMEO’S THE COOLEST SPOT IN THE DESERT

Slide up next to the regulars – Nova, Galaxie, Vega. Landing brakes, signal, release. A faint glow emanates from each window, a UV glaze over a terrestrial complexion. It flickers. Invites you in with a knowing wink.

Step inside and feel the gauge: a loss of signal; time washes out. A corridor of mirrors. Patterns on the walls having disagreements with patterns on the floors. A velvet curtain, matte red with a fading “R”. A tumult of voices, hollow laughter and the slide of a synth pull you forward with the kind of confidence you can’t ignore.

And the space opens up. Disco ball reflections dance in an offbeat kilter; a Morse code orbit with diamanté feet. The bar leans easy, replicating those it caters to, while Lloyd’s always on shift. Wide lapels and a 40mm heel, he’s been here since dawn – a loyal servant; a shining example. From entry initialisation to frequent flyer, he’ll have you reset your values with the hair o’ the dog that bit ya.

Take a look around. An ice rink for a dance floor on steady rotation. Smoke-stained walls morph into shrouded booths with clouded truths, and candles shadow the chaotic flap of a mermaid’s tail; each a mini wave, breaking across the walls. No longer manifest, franchises just wouldn’t work. Romeo’s is proof that even in the most desolate spot, there’s a life beyond. It’s a Fitzcarraldo dream. A Wunderkammer on a buffering live-stream.

Vape clouds blow past, distorted holograms of past lovers – the ones truth can’t quite conjure. It’s a halfway house on reality road. Teasing poltergeists tasked with rumbling through your insecurities, they’re abstract elements of a private dream waiting to act out anything you wish. A montage of reflection, an amnesty on your anxieties in an augmented reality. And you remember where it all went wrong.

Red eye nights and transient days, you could meet someone here as an abstract gesture, see your own divinity confirmed in the contours of the ice. A shimmering oasis with an infinity pool. Sculling in the shimmer end, doing synchronised aerobics with Verismo reflections. They’ll sell you a deep-end Houdini, only to make you lose yourself completely, rolling around your own psyche like an olive in a martini.

All in white, the house band play. It’s a permanent residency – a diegetic gig with an eternal pay-off. They’re stuck in a rut; feeling the motions with an eroding devotion. Backing vocals are a chorus of trailing conversations caught in a verbatim beat, while Moog liberation is a fading background derge. Missed the Mercury Prize, regrouping for Jupiter rising.

Strictly democracy on the dance floor and dictatorship in the sound booth – requests are just that. A gelateria in the corner: ‘limitless flavours; you name it, we explore it’. It’s an infinite jest, a twister with a gooey centre. Frozen for a moment, now there’s food for thought.

Breaking news from transient days splutter via the speakers, underlining the band’s signature 9/8 beat with a loosely-defined crackle. Listen up. The President’s dead. The war is over. A lunar path. A devastating crash.

We’re at a nebulous marker on the cultural bypass. A constituency of conspiracy: where the margaritas leave a bitter taste and truth comes wrapped in a Snapchat filter. It’s where Ebert signed the treaty and Donald met his storm. Lane fell for Kent and Cripin found the guts. Oppenheimer had an atomic reaction and Tesla called for Eldridge. Montauk became a project and Mark Felt opened wide. When Stanley Kubrick faked the moon landings, Ground Control was deep inside.

And each night, every night, there’s a repetitive refrain. When voices slide to shush and the band fades down, hush. The time barrier slams shut, smoke fizzes from between the backroom doors; a hazy mist on the frozen floor. A bold key change. An Exorcist synth. A sweeping piano. A klieg drop. And Romeo glides across the ice.

Armani jumpsuit, crystallised with constellations from above, sent
to Earth in an Elvis V. It’s those bejewelled fingers, that slick black
hair and the swing of a dozen necklaces worn like military medals from glacier campaigns. Patent leather gloves, a gold python cape. A true Don Juan, distilled and reborn.

Dios mio. Sacre bleu. Ain’t it a privilege, to witness him live; real- time velocity with permanent ferocity. A midnight cowboy; eyes like phasers, moves set to stun. His blades cut through the sonata like
an instrument with exemplary lift. It’s a 360, baby. It’s a ten point manoeuvre. Waltz, rumba, foxtrot tango.

Sorry, gates are now closed. Romeo’s in full flight.

Ninja kicks set to sleazy licks. Hands outstretched, slicing through the cosmos with a shimmering veneer. It’s the majesty of a heavenward ascent, it’s Valkyries in Valhalla. Romeo, just who do you think you
are? Consider it a first dance, a perfect matrimony in time and space. Salchow, Lutz, triple Axel. Drop. Ending credits in a synchronised beat.

……………

Oh doesn’t time fly, when you can see it passing by.

Module eagle, taking flight. Standby for the best party of your life