Empire, Nevada

Chapter 1: Welcome to Nowhere

Chapter 1 – Welcome to Nowhere

January 12, 2011
Population: 322

Before the meeting, the biggest unknown in my life was what senior year of high school would be like. I figured I’d get a little more freedom, maybe a driver’s license, possibly even an honest-to-God girlfriend. All of that disappeared after that dreadful day. In a matter of moments, my life became a snow globe someone had shaken into a blizzard.
I’d grown up in Empire and was used to its quirks. It wasn’t perfect—stuck in the middle of nowhere, where you had to be good at making your own fun—but it was the only home I’d ever known. Some people complained about how small it was, but I liked knowing almost everyone I saw. I didn’t handle change well, and I clung to what little I had because I knew how quickly it could vanish. Empire was ideal for someone like me: frozen in time, like Mayberry in the desert.
When I saw the size of the crowd that night, I nearly turned around and walked home. Before that day, the factory parking lot had been a quiet little oasis where the hum of truck engines blended with miners’ idle chatter. But now, I walked past the last truck and saw a horde of people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Even the small trees bordering the lot seemed to shiver in anticipation. Still, I couldn’t help but hope—some small part of me believed the pendulum might swing the other way, that we’d get a last-minute reprieve.
The outside of the Michellette office wasn’t much to look at. Tin walls painted a sickly yellow-tan—a color someone might only buy if it were being practically given away. Everything was covered in a fine layer of gypsum dust that floated lazily through the air. People shuffled around in the haze, kicking it up with their boots. A few folks lit cigarettes, the smoke mixing with the dust in a choking, bitter cloud.
I coughed, and Tim Parker, an old man with thick eyebrows and a pipe, said, “’S’cuse me, son.”
I tried to smile. “No problem. Honestly, I could go for a smoke myself.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be smoking?” he asked, his eyes softening with concern.
I shrugged. “Aren’t you a little old for it?”
“Guess you got me there,” he chuckled, letting out a wheezy laugh before shuffling on.
Since there was no grand entrance or formal building, Michellette Mining had set up a stage near the one feature that stood out: a dirty glass door with rusted trim, peeling stickers, and brown age spots.
Rows of folding chairs were lined up behind a black podium. Microphones stuck out from it like mushrooms, each labeled with a different news station. Floodlights from camera crews lit the lot in harsh white glare.
I passed a skinny cameraman handing a mic to a pretty blonde reporter. “Jesus, this is depressing,” she muttered. “Let’s wrap this up and get the hell out of here.”
I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and scream, Don’t you get it? We could lose everything. But she was already checking her makeup in a compact mirror.
I doubt she would’ve cared anyway. Our town was just a blip to her. She looked more concerned with how she appeared covering the story than with the story itself.
I pushed past her and into a crowd of bundled-up women and men in trucker hats, all whispering nervously. Someone passed a bottle in a brown paper bag to a woman dressed like the Michelin Man in a giant puffy coat.
“Why the hell are we here?” she muttered. “The bar’s showing this on TV. I’m freezing my ass off.”
“The bar’ll still be there,” the man next to her said. “Might as well be here. Been waiting weeks for this.”
I joined the line of latecomers. An older man patted his wife’s shoulder and said, “It’ll be OK, hon. They’ll announce a new owner. We’ll be fine.”
His voice was a little too high-pitched, like he was trying to convince himself.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Bob. If the recession can take down billion-dollar banks, what chance do we have?”
I agreed, though I kept it to myself. I never believed in luck—especially not my own.
I tried finding James and Slim, my two best friends, but moving through the mob was like wading through molasses. By the time I spotted them at the back of the lot, my dad had already begun scanning the crowd for me. I turned back toward the stage. I knew I’d be in trouble if he had to come look for me.
Climbing the steps felt like walking to a firing squad. Suited-up execs stood around laughing and joking, oblivious to the damage they might inflict. Most of them were strangers—probably the first time they’d set foot in Empire despite holding our future in their hands. A few local Michellette reps sat with their families, already in place for the event.
I nearly turned back when Dad waved me over to a chair he’d saved. “Right behind the podium? Seriously?” I groaned.
He gave me a weak smile. “Don’t worry, Paul. The speakers will block you.”
He’d picked it on purpose. He didn’t want me visible. Embarrassed by how I looked, he wanted credit for having me there without actually having me seen.
He gave me a once-over. “Couldn’t wear something else? Those sleeves are so stretched, they look like bell bottoms. At least comb your hair? This is an important night.”
“I get it, Dad. You don’t want anyone seeing your fat son.”
“It’s not like that. We’re here to show solidarity.”
“No, you’re here to make a pretty picture for the cameras.” I glanced around. “Feels like everyone’s staring at me.”
“To tell you the truth, son— they probably are.”
Yep. Classic Dad.
One of the suits stepped behind the mic. “Good evening. I want to thank everyone for being here.” His voice rasped like a lifelong smoker. “We’re proud of the work done here in Empire. Thank you for your loyalty.”
Here it comes.
“Sadly, I’m here to announce the closure of our operations in Empire. Some of you may be transferred to Reno or other facilities, but I’m afraid most will be let go.”
I watched as hope drained from the faces in the crowd. I’d expected to cry, but I felt hollow instead—like my insides had been scooped out and replaced with smoke. Everything I knew was ending, and I couldn’t imagine anything good coming next.
I didn’t dare hope for things to get better.
They never do.
The suit kept talking. Others took turns piling on the platitudes. “We appreciate your dedication... we’re sorry... Michellette will assist with job transitions...” Blah, blah, blah.
It was all PR nonsense. You could tell by the way they smiled for the cameras, how light their steps were as they walked off stage.
Everyone in the crowd began asking the same silent questions: What now? Where do I go? How do I move on?
I hoped, despite everything, that maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be the end. But I didn’t believe that. Not really.
Things were winding down when my dad stood to give a speech he’d refused to let me read. I could’ve killed him for that. Now I’d be just as surprised as everyone else.
Before he spoke, a red truck swerved into the lot, coming to a crooked stop behind a news van. A group of drunken miners stumbled out, still holding their drinks.
Carl Bates led the pack, eyes wild. His daughter Trish used to be my best friend, but we hadn’t spoken since middle school. Even then, he was a mean drunk. Getting fired had only made him worse.
Dad stepped forward to block him. People leaned in, hoping for a show. The crowd hushed as Dad tried to calm him down. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Mr. Bates didn’t whisper his reply.
“What do you think I’m doin’, Simpkins? I’m here to tell these bastards how it is. They think they can roll over us? I’ll show ’em! You just watch!”
Dad tried again, hands up like an offensive lineman. Police were already moving in. Bates saw them too. He drained the last of his drink and grinned.
Then he hurled the glass bottle at the stage.
Time slowed. Our eyes met, both of us realizing too late—it was flying at me, not the podium.
I ducked, but not fast enough. The bottle smashed against my forehead.
The world blurred, then spun. I collapsed to the ground, thinking, I’m going to die. Thank God.
But I woke up seconds later with a balding paramedic leaning over me and warm blood running down my face.
I hadn’t seen that much blood since I found my mom. It had soaked into the tiles back then, a mosaic of red squares. Seeing it now made me throw up, just like I had that night. I’ll never understand why she did it, but in that moment—I got it. I’d never wanted to die more in my life.
After purging the Spaghetti-O’s I’d had for lunch, I muttered, “I’m fine. I just wanna go home.”
The medic ignored me, pulled out a penlight, and checked my pupils. His garlic breath hit me in waves.
“Follow the light,” he said.
After a few passes, he grunted. “Looks worse than it is. No stitches needed. If it turns red around the edges, see a doctor. That’s a sign of infection.” He smiled, but it felt like relief to be done with me.
The crowd stared. The moment the attention returned, I wanted to vanish. I looked for my father, but he was too busy glad-handing execs to notice me.
I’d expected heartbreak.
I hadn’t expected humiliation too.
All I wanted was to curl into a ball and disappear forever.