A Short Tale
Three hundred miles. Five hundred kilometers. Thirty miles an hour, stop every fifty kilometers, rest for 15 minutes. Ten stops. Twelve, maybe thirteen hours. Drive into another time zone, add an hour.
12:20 in the afternoon, Roswell enters my rearview mirror. East on 380. A long road reaching across the yellow plains before me. Gone are the days of cool mountain air. No clouds to block the sun. Fifty miles beyond Alien Town and the scooter overheats. I get off the scooter. I think about the time.
Dry desert. Dry, faded-green plants. One smallish, green fruit like an avocado hangs close to the barbed wire fence away from the road. I walk toward the bush, pull it from the branch and cut into it with my knife. Four wedges with skin like an orange. Underneath the skin of each wedge are off-white slices having the appearance and texture of waterchestnuts. I ponder the taste of the fruit in my hand. I try to imagine the taste of it on my tongue. I cut apart each slice, separating them between my fingers, inspecting these imposter waterchestnuts, before tossing them to the ground, to the fire ants beneath me.
Cars occasionally pass. As each does, I drink the warm water from the bottle – the one that’s been sitting behind me, bearing the brunt of the weight of my backpack since leaving Arizona – to appear that I am simply resting. It would be a waste of their time to stop and a burden to me to explain why I am stopped by the side of the road.
The machine starts after several more tires. I let it sit a while longer, smoke another cigarette, and then get back on the road, the road which leads me to Caprock.
A large red sign with yellow letters (or possibly a yellow sign with red letters) tells me there are burritos ahead. I see an outcropping of trees against the plains. The town of Caprock is defined by this solitary building ahead; by this farmhouse, by this general store, by this home standing with nothing around for miles. I park next to a lone, blue pickup truck. It seems there are children’s swings in the front yard. The entrance is on the side of the house; a screen door behind which the wooden door is open. The springs creak on the outer door as I open it.
Two card tables to my right, crosses of various sizes cover the far wooden wall, a large console tv sits in the corner, a separate UHF antenna on top. Two plastic bowls of peanuts, one on each table, sit half-full. The larger table in the back is in disarray with papers scattered across.
To my left are shelves with homemade preserves, white Christmas lights strung between them. A neatly arranged row of potato chips and a small case containing single serving gourmet coffees.
The hall across the room in front of me seems to lead to a bedroom on the left, a kitchen on the right and two rooms at the far end. I step slightly forward to confirm.
No one is present in this home, this store, this restaurant.
“Hello?”
No answer. I am about to call again when an older woman, mid-sixties, walks quietly in from the kitchen. Cotton blend slacks. A comfortable blouse for around the house. Slip-on flats.
“Hello,” she says. I am another traveler stopping at her oasis in the middle of nowhere. I feel strange having entered this home. Rather than simply ordering a quick meal from some teenager standing behind a counter, I am in the position of having to engage in dialogue. I don’t mind; I welcome it, in fact. But it is unexpected and I am at a loss in this situation. I ask if she serves food, knowing she does as the sign against the wall listed suggested donations for a select menu consisting of burritos and french fries. And pie. She does serve food, she points to the menu board.
Presently, a thinly framed older gentleman walks out. Seventy-ish. Cowboy. Straw hat, a faded plaid lavender and purple shirt tucked into blue jeans with worn white edges on the back right pocket showing the outline of a small wallet. The jeans hang loosely, held up by a dark and tattered brown leather belt fastened by a large tarnished belt buckle. Cowboy boots.
The woman, for reasons I can’t discern, guides me through the home, showing me the rooms. The front bedroom is country cozy with a well worn single mattress tucked into the corner. The recently finished second bedroom in the back appears to have been remodeled for children. I never look into the other room in the back. Was the door closed? I ask if this is an inn as well. She tells me no.
I sit back down at the table in the front. The cowboy has disappeared. I look at the menu against the wall – the words ‘suggested donations’ atop the whiteboard confuse me momentarily. I order the green chile burrito.
A minute later and a microwaved pre-prepared burrito is before me. As I fork and knife my way through this simple meal – the burrito would be the state food for Arizona, New Mexico and Texas if such a thing existed – the woman mills about, rearranging the knick-knackery for sale throughout the living room; the ‘store’ part of this house. She is moving crosses on the wall. Prints of cowboys (or possibly Indians) sticker-priced in the lower-right corner, hang without dust and wonder if today is the day that they will be rearranged. Or maybe even bought by this new visitor.
She is trying to find a good spot for the worn, handmade leather satchel she has brought out from the front bedroom. The cowboy, who has since sat down to enjoy a slice of pecan pie with his iced tea, tells her it will work beneath the far cross. She hangs it on a nail already present. The yin and yang of an old married couple at work.
The man recommends I try the pie of which he himself has just eaten a slice. I ask her if I might have a piece. Of course, she tells me. Microwaved for a few seconds too long and I burn my tongue on the first bite.
She returns to the kitchen and the cowboy and I talk. He talks about Alaska. We talk about visitors. I finish my pie, the woman comes out. I pay for my meal, thank them for their hospitality, and leave.
I check the time; I am now running well behind schedule. I look once more at the General Store, try briefly to piece it together…
I leave.
