Desert Jordans
NOTE: I read an article in the LA Times about train robbers in Mojave stealing Nikes. I had Perplexity search for the topic, took the results to Chat GPT, and asked for a short story.
They came under the moon, slipping between iron and shadow, moving like ghosts. The Mojave night stretched endless around them, cold and still, but the train rumbled like a heartbeat—slow, steady, full of promise.
Luis crouched low, fingers tightening around the bolt cutters. Beside him, Junior checked his phone. “It’s the one,” Junior whispered. “Red tag. Jordans.”
A hundred million dollars of sneakers rolled through the desert every year. Enough to tempt anyone.
The cutters bit through the air brake hose with a hiss. The train wheezed, lurched, and groaned to a stop. Luis grinned. They had maybe ten minutes before the engineers figured it out, maybe fifteen before the bulls came sniffing.
They worked fast, popping the latch, swinging the doors wide. Inside, the boxes were stacked like bricks of gold. Luis grabbed one, tore it open—Air Jordan 11 Retros, pristine, still wrapped in tissue.
“Let’s move,” Junior urged.
The van skidded up, headlights cut. Three more guys jumped out. The boxes moved like a bucket brigade—sneakers into the dark, fast as hands could pass.
Then Luis heard it—another engine. A second train, moving opposite. He turned and saw something strange.
A man, standing on a flatbed car.
The figure was still, backlit by the freight yard lamps miles away, casting a long shadow. He wore an old cowboy hat, wide-brimmed, dusty. His jacket hung loose, frayed at the edges. But it wasn’t that which stopped Luis cold. It was the sneakers.
High-tops.
White leather, red soles. Old, real old, but gleaming in the night. Jordans, sure as hell, but from another time.
The man tipped his hat.
Then the second train was gone, swallowed by the night.
“Luis!” Junior barked.
The last box hit the van, the door slammed shut. Tires kicked up dust as they sped away, leaving the stopped train behind. Luis glanced back once, but the figure was gone.
Later, as they counted pairs in a warehouse off the 10, Luis stayed quiet.
He knew the stories. Knew about the old desert bandits, the ghosts who never left.
And now he knew something else.
Somewhere out there, under that same moon, a dead man was rocking a pair of Jordans.
