David Lohrey


Deserted But Not Abandoned, Part 1


The courtyard is covered in dust. Beyond the chain-link fence stands rows of F-15 fighter jets. The Bengali movers lounge under the only tree that can be seen for miles. It is three in the afternoon and close to 43 degrees Celsius.

As I look for my new apartment, we leave a trail as a giant slug might in the fine dust that covers everything, including the palm fronds that lay dead on the ground. We wander around looking for my rooms, number 418. I can see 298 and 117 in the same block of nondescript units. There seems to be no order, no sequence, no sense. 221, 38, 479 are upstairs, 110 down. How would I ever find it? No one who met me at the airport speaks English. My driver is as…

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