In Albu-Turkey, way past the dumb ass intersection of I-25 and I-40, for some odd reason, the food gets worse. Just in that corner where snakes of diesel trucks roll off the black top into the potholed truck stops, where the chili is a dirty watery green and nothing to brag about unless you’re from Arkansas.
I was about 13 years old on a strange tour around the southwest of the United States. I was a dancer for many years and I loved hanging with all the adults. Boo, chained smoked Camels without filters. He gave us wine so I was dancing and drinking way too early.
It was on that surreal Hunter Thompson-esk tour that I first got my Ocarina in that truck stop in Albuquerque from a Peruvian-man named Carlos. Carlos was skinny, seemed like a sickly man, as he loved the watery green chili burrito.
Carlos didn’t have a drinking problem. He drank hard stuff and he didn’t stop, no problem. He smiled at me in the early morning as big ole-truckers walked in from the cold and into the greasy spoon. Winter was gonna come soon and the Aspen leaves had turned a shade of brown-ochre. Through his bigger than average teeth, he said, “come here..” Groggy and still a bit drunk he pulled me into his down-jacket to give me a hug. I could feel his bony chest. He liked me.
He was lucky. I wanted to be lucky. Ruby was from somewhere, grew up on some sheep camp outside of Durango and was a beauty with dark brown Hispana mama. She was half his age, however, that was a good thing cause that’s how we rock stars roll. She ran away from the potato fields and the pictures of her past life that collected on her Mamma’s Ice box-refrigerator door. Read More→