“Wiccans Bro. They come out here, get totally naked and dance around in circles. But it’s cool by me, they don’t bother anyone and I can see some boobies, you know what I mean Bro.” Rattlesnake was telling me about life in the desert. I assumed his name was rattlesnake anyway since that’s what was embroidered above the breast on the now sleeveless extremely worn work shirt he was wearing, in the spot people usually have nametags. Rattlesnake was the proprietor of a “rocks and polished stones” shop about 20 miles off the main highway in the Utah desert. I suspected rocks were not his sole source of income. He was a personable enough guy, he’d definitely been out in the middle of nowhere for a long time and had a story about everything. In the 30 minutes I was there – I’d stopped to ask directions – he’d told me the long backstory of several of his sun faded tattoos, about the time a snake migration passed through his shop, giant spiders that end up in his underwear drawer, the best place to get local moonshine and the wiccans. I finally got the info I needed from him and headed out, waving by to myself in his mirrored sungalsses as he called out to tell me to remind him to tell me about something next time I came by.