Concho sunglasses

That reminds me of a story.
“Rock”, Esme yells to me exasperatedly, as I’m out in the garage trying to fix the winch on my truck, “Your satellite phone’s going nuts. Will you please answer the damned thing?”
I had left my Osmoridium phone in my study as I’m off-duty and elbows deep in a wayward world-weary worn Warn Winch.
“Oh, sorry”, I reply. My, she’s cranky. I know Tash has lately been into everything, but that’s no reason…
“ROCK! ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE!” Esme orders at great volume.
“Yes, dear”, I rapidly and meekly reply as I run to my office. I guess it’s time for a conciliatory Haagen-Dazs infusion.
I run into the house, trip on the stupid cat, and get waylaid by Lady who insists that now would be a good time for walkies….
Out of breath, after promising Lady I’ll take her for her daily constitutional if she’ll let me answer the damned phone, I pick it up, cue the passcode, and yell into the infernal device: “WHAT‽”
“Umm…Hello, Doctor.” the phone replies. It’s Agent Rack.
“Yes? Sorry. I’m a bit out of breath.” I apologize.
“Sorry. I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything, did I?” he leers, which is difficult to convey over the phone, but he manages.
“Yes.” I snap back, “I was welding on a winch…” but I stop. I knew this was going nowhere.
“Oh?” he replies.
“Yep. Now, Agent, what for can I do you?” I ask.
“How’s your schedule look for the next couple-three weeks?” he asks.
“So far, semi-clear,” I reply. I’ve got some galley proofs to read over on an article I’ve submitted to Science magazine with some other geological types, but I’m holding off on contracts for a time. These last few trips really took it out of me. I need a little R&R.
“Well, I’ve got a request”, he explains.
“Great. More Agency skullduggery?” I wonder aloud, “Or another training mission to some far-flung locale?”
“No. Not this time”, he explains, “It’s more of an interdepartmental courtesy…”
“Oh, lord,” I muse, “Now what?”
“Well, Doctor”, Agent Rack proceeds, “The US Department of the Inferior, in collaboration with the Bureau of Land Mismanagement and the Bureau of Indigenous Affairs was asking us if we knew anyone with mining geological experience. Naturally, your name came up.”
“Um, Agent”, I explained, “I’m Oil Field Trash. I’ve done some mining; coal, hard and soft rock, surface and underground, as well as quarrying, but you know well I’m mostly an oily, drilly sort of guy…”
“We know that”, he continues, “But they are in explicit need of someone with a large amount of geological…”
“Yes?” I ask leerily.
“…and blasting experience…” he adds. I can hear his grin growing over the phone.
“OK, you got me”, I note, “You have piqued my interest. You will not be hung up on now for another 2 minutes. The clock’s ticking, Agent…”
“Umm, yes”, he noted, “They need someone to make the rounds of a number of disused mines in the Southwest, some in New Mexico as a matter of fact, and de-activate them.”
Visions of Primacord and binaries begin dancing in my head.
“OK, you’ve earned yourself a few more minutes”, I reply, “Please. Do continue.”
“If you accept”, he notes further, “You’ll be paired with an accredited Wildlife Biologist. Those mines with populations of bats are to be closed but retaining access for these animals. Those mines without an indigenous winged mammalian fauna will be closed permanently.”
“Whoa. ‘Indigenous winged mammalian fauna’?” I ask. “Since when did you go to school?”
“I’m reading from the prospectus, Doctor”, he replies, icily.
“Ah.” I reply, “When, where and most importantly, how much?”
“When is as soon as possible. Where is New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona. Possibly Nevada. How much remains to be seen.” He replies.
“OK. What about materiels?” I ask, “Will I have access to some governmental goodies?”
“If you are referring to explosives,” he continues, “Of course. You will have full access to whatever you need. That includes building materials. You can mix and lay concrete, can you not?”
“Oh, sure.” I reply, “Just ask Guido the Blade. Oh, never mind. He wouldn’t say much from the bottom of the Chicago River.”
“Humor.”, the agent continues, “A most difficult concept. Particularly with you.”
“Yes”, I clarify, “I’m adept at handling concrete. It’s not exactly rocket science, y’know.”
“Good”, he replies, “Interested?”
“As usual, let me ask Esme. If I get the all-clear from her, yeah, I’d be interested. Is it FIFO or DIDO? [Fly in/Fly Out, Drive In/Drive Out].”
“We’d prefer you drive”, he notes, “You already have most of the equipment, and that will save time in the long run.”
“Y’know”, I reply, “rental on my gear is going to cost you…wear and tear, transport, insurance… This is a very ominous assignment -- with overtones of extreme personal danger. I'm a bloody Doctor of Geology. This is important, goddamnit!”
“Yes, we know”, he says somewhat defeated, “Send us your quote by the COB (Conclusion of Business) today. We’ll be back in touch.”
“BuzzBuzzBuzz.” The phone buzzes.
“Hmm. He hung up”, I notice, “How rude.”
First things first. If I’m going to spring this on Es at the present moment, I need to make plans.
“Es!” I yell, “I’m taking Lady walkies. I took my phone. Back in a few!” and I’m out the door, being dragged by our 130-kilo Mastiff.
Luckily, there’s a Stop-n-Rob just on the other side of the sub-division. We head over there and pick up a container of Dark Chocolate Fudge Mocha Chip Trüffel Caramel Custard Marshmallow Triple Ripple, a pint of Peppermint Custard Sandwich Cookie White Chocolate Peppermint Schnapps, and some Butter Rum Custard Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Almond Bark Pecan Macadamia with Fudge-Covered Peanuts, Lite for home.
I also picked up a pint of Blue Bell Bean Vanilla for me.
It’s not bribery. It’s for maintaining sanity and a sense of normality back home.
They have thermal insert bags, so I purchase one to keep the frozen bounty in its present condition until Lady decides she’s walked enough.
Over a pint of choco-goo, I broach the idea of my traveling to New Mexico for a couple or three weeks.
“Yeah, Es”, I explain, “I really don’t want to go, but hell. It’s the government, and they asked specifically for me. It makes me nervy, especially if I say no and they talk to their buddies at the Infernal Revenue Disservice.”
Not really. It’s a small fib, although I never did let them know about my accounts in Russia’s Sverbank…
Not that that’s illegal or anything.
I think. I hope.
Esme looks at me askance.
“Leaving again?” she asks, “Home alone with the kids. Well, I knew the job was dangerous when I took it…”
“What job?” I foolishly ask.
“Marrying you.” She grins.
Actually, she’s fine with my taking a road trip. It gives her the excuse to order plane tickets for her mother to fly in and sit with Esme and the kids whilst I’m gone. Of course, Esme will tend to this, she has all my pertinent numbers. I’m now on a schedule. And a mission.
“All that ice cream for nothing”, I lament.
“Everything in life has its price”, she smiles at me.
“So, I can go?” I ask her directly.
“Well,” she smirks, “As long as you’re going to New Mexico, you could drop by the Scavada and see what’s on dead pawn…”
“Gotcha.” I smile, “Good thing the Agency’s got deep pockets. This is going to cost me a bundle just to get there.”
“Turquoise”, Esme notes, “Not turtle shell. Oh, silver conchos if Fred has any.”
“Message received.” I smile.
“Well, I need to mail Rack and Ruin my prospectus for this job”, I note, “And now I really need that winch fixed.”
“Rock”, Es says, “Don’t take this wrong, but why not call in Digger? You worry about your Agency contract and let Digger sort out your truck. That thing is evil and hates me but you seem to like it. Let him get it ready for your road trip.”
My 1-ton GMC pickup is a big old truck, and Esme hates it because it’s huge, has a custom 10-speed manual transmission, three fuel tanks, four-wheel drive, and mind of its own.
However, she’s never let me down and I refuse to trade her in.
That’s the truck I’m referring to…
I call Digger and he sends over his top mechanic, Cletus. I pile the bits and pieces of the winch into the back and he drives off to Digger’s garage. He’s going to give her the once over, change all the belts and hoses and charge me a fortune. But, he does excellent work and stands behind it. He even changes and tops off the blinker light fluid. More than I can say for most mechanics I’ve run across.
I work up my contract for the Agency. It’s bog-standard: per diem, travel allowances, Door to Door, Force Majeure clause, Take or Pay; the usual.
I send it off and within three hours, I have the signed contract in my hands along with my contact information, itinerary, and the job description.
It’s actually rather simple work this time. Assay disused mines all over the southwest. If they are home to a bat population, then close the mines adits (portals) so that the bats, but nothing else, particularly humans, can gain entrance.
No bats? Close the portals permanently.
I love vague wording.
Translation: get loads of explosives from the government and blast those fuckers shut good and tight.
Since we’re back in Texas now; yes, we do a lot of bouncing around for the next couple of decades, I’m actually looking forward to the drive to New Mexico.
I decide to take the scenic route. I’ll go down I-10 through San Antonio, to El Paso. Spend the night in El Paso, then drive north to Las Cruces. After that, it’s just due north to Albuquerque and the offices of the BLM. Easy drive, nice and scenic. I’ll leave at midnight, be in San Antonio by 0300 or so, and then spend the morning and early afternoon driving to El Paso.
Overnight in ‘The Pass’, with maybe a bit of a side trip to Old Mexico’s Ciudad Juarez to pick up a few boxes of cheap cigars, and bunk it in for the night. The next morning, I can ease up to Las Cruces, maybe with a stopover in Socorro and visit the New Mexico Bureau of Mines and Mineral Resources, then scoot up to Albuquerque.
Well, as long as I’m going to stop over in Juarez, I may as well drop in at Los Ojos Rojos, a restaurant/tavern I used to frequent on our annual deer hunts down near Cornudas.
We’d go every year, and most years we would actually take guns.
Anyways.
First, I have to get my truck back from Digger. Until then, time to pack.
Later that evening I hear my truck pull up outside the house. It’s Digger personally delivering my GMC back to me.
“Yeah, welp, Rock; we got’er all saddled and bridled for ya’” Digger says, “Had to upgrade your winch, seems some ham-fisted rod jockey welded some of the contact points clean off…”
I was standing in the driveway with a cross look.
“Which can happen to anyone”, he quickly continues. “Tuned ‘er up, oil change, new belts, checked all the fluids, made sure everything was A-OK. I finally got those tires you ordered, and lookee here. Shit, with these new skins, she looks like a new truck. Got you two spares like you asked; one’s slung underneath and the other’s locked down in the bed.”
The truck looked great. New all-terrain off-road and overland tires, polished Crager high-strength off-road mag wheels, winch with all new mounting hardware and new tow cable. Hell, even got me a new titanium hook-clip for the winch. Impressive. I felt better now heading on down and off the road.
I gasped a bit when he presented me with the bill. He never dings me much for labor, pick up or delivery. But new chrome locking lug nuts, six new tires, a couple of new rims, and all the assorted tune-up and fluids work topped out north of $1,750.
I paid Digger. I also consoled myself that one way or another, the Agency’s going to be footing this bill.
I shake Digger’s greasy hand and thank him. He tells me to take it easy as the Texas Highway Patrol’s on the warpath again. He’s a fountain of good Intel.
Back in the house, I tell Esme it’s all hands on deck.
I need help packing as Esme tells me “You’re hopeless”.
“OK”, I readily agree, “I need two-three weeks’ worth of field clothes, a couple of pairs of field boots, my blasting vest, and my Stetson.”
“Only the bare minimums, right?” Esme chuckles.
“Oh, all that under-armor and socks and such…” I add.
“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t bolted on”, Esme chuckles as she grabs one of my luggage cases and sets to packing me for my journey.
In my office, I start to collect my traveling necessities.
Hmmm…wallet, necessary licenses, and certificates. Check.
Passport? Not this time.
Emergency and road flasks? Check, double-check.
Oh, bother. Only one box of cigars. And it’s too late to head to the mall. Ah, well, now I have a real excuse to sashay over the border in El Paso.
I hope a single box of Fuentes will get me as far as ‘The Pass’.
Now, back to packing.
Bullwhip? Nahhh. I never could get the hang of that thing.
OK, let’s see: Captain America blasting machine. Leatherman. Buck jackknife. Blaster’s pliers. Estwing hammers. Chisels. Gad pry bars. Marsh pick. All those leftover rolls of “Do Not Cross. Crime Scene” tape. Zippo lighters. Fresh field notebooks. Tyvek sample bags. 10 gauge pump Mossberg shotgun. A couple of boxes of double-ought buckshot. 64 ounce ‘keeps’em hot’ travel mug. Cassettes, 8-track tapes, and CDs (my truck goes all ways, musically).
I’ll need to stop in Mancos, TX. to pick up some dry sausage and jerky. Good thing it’s right on the way.
Oh, yeah; my .454 Casull sidearm. And a couple of boxes of hot loads.
I’ll need to procure a quart of bourbon, a quart of rum, a quart of vodka, a case of Bitter Lemon, a bag of limes, a couple of cases of beer… not that I needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious booze collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
We put the children to bed after stories and hugs, and I pack my truck. I forgot I had a ‘safety blitz’, that is, a case of beer stashed behind the seat in my truck. Good. I can stay hydrated much more easily now. Odd, I don’t remember opening it and grabbing a six-pack. Wasn’t like that when it went to Digger’s, was it?
Bah! Never mind. I need to get packed.
I place the shotgun in the Texas-standard Easy Rider Rifle Rack. I have my holster on, but driving while wearing a hand cannon is most uncomfortable. It goes into the metal lock-box between the two seats. Esme helps me load the truck and seeing how I forgot any foul weather gear, she brings out my duster for me.
“What would I do without you”, I ask through a sloppy, wet kiss.
“Die of exposure?” she snickers.
“Nice.” I reply.
I go through my quick mental checklist. Luckily Es remembers that I didn’t mention film.
I troop back in the house and grab a half-dozen rolls out of my office fridge.
“Now do you have everything?” Es asks.
“Yep.” I reply, “Don’t think I forgot anything else…”
“Do you have your Brunton?” she asks.
Back in the truck after retrieving my Brunton compass, she asks me “Galvanometer?”
In the garage, I grab my galvanometer.
I look around furtively to see if there’s anything else I should grab.
Back in the truck, again. Esme is still chuckling.
“If I’ve forgotten anything, I’ll buy it,” I said, hunkering down behind the wheel.
“Contracts? Field books? Pencils? Satellite phone?” Esme asks.
“No, I’ve got all that.” I reply, “Looks like I’m finally good to go.”
Es scans the front seat of my truck which looks like a flea market in Addicks.
“Don’t worry. I’ll sort out all this debris while on the road.” I assure her.
“Just be damned careful. Remember, my mother’s coming in a day or two. Don’t be afraid to call.” She smiles.
“Not a problem.” I reply, “You take it easy with the girls. Maybe go over to Bear Creek and feed the ducks?”
“Don’t let them hear you say that”, Es looks alarmed, “You know what an ordeal that is.”
It’s not feeding the ducks, it’s loading the car and all the preliminaries. Then the inevitable “I don’t wanna” when it’s time to go home.
“OK”, I say, “Just stand down until Oma arrives. Use my corporate card and get her a cab so you don’t have to troop out to the airport with the kids.”
“I was going to ask Sylvia to watch them”, Es nods, “But that’s a better idea.”
“That’s me all over. ‘Dr. Problem Solver.’” I smile.
We embrace, kiss, and I fire up my truck. It catches on the first turn and I note all three tanks are full.
“Only need to stop is to pee before reaching El Paso,” I say to Es, “We’re all tanked up and ready to go.”
“Just be damned careful”, Es reminds me, “You’ve got a family waiting on your return in once piece.”
“Hey, if I can survive Aeroflot, I’m bulletproof”, I say.
Es chuckles deferentially.
“Just drive safely and come home safe and sound.” She tells me.
“Will do, hon!” I reply.
We kiss, I drop the truck into reverse, and chug out on the highway.
I plug a tape into the musical volcano that is my truck’s sound system. 1000 watts RMS, 8 speakers, graphic equalizer. Nothing succeeds like excess.
I’m not certain that the subwoofer was such a good idea for a truck without a crew cab…
“On the road again -
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is blowin’ shit up with my friends.
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again.
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things no one will ever see again.
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again.”
“Gad”, I think, “What a set of pipes.”
Well, the road trip calms down considerably after all this. The initial euphoria of being out on the road again is replaced by the reality of the fact of the size of Texas and the time it takes going from point A to point B.
No roadmap needed. The trip is utter simplicity. I-10 West until El Paso, then dogleg right up I-25 through New Mexico.
Yawn. It’s only been 2.5 hours and already I’m bored out of my skull.
Coming up to Mancos, I see the Mancos Billy Bob Truck Stop, Tire Salon, Hair Dressers, and International Airport is still open. This is my first stop.
Provisions.
64-ounces of day-old, if I’m that lucky, road coffee. Beef, elk, bison, and turkey jerky. Links of dry sausage. A couple of cases of Lone Star. A bottle of Old Thought Provoker or two.
OK, three.
A bag of ice for the cooler, a bulletproof ham and cheese Truck Stop sandwich, and a bag of chicken crispies.
These are the bits of chicken that fall off other people’s orders. They’re greasily magically delicious.
A couple of boxes of Jack Black cheapo-o road cigars, some scratch-off lottery tickets for Es, and five “Pick 5” lotto picks.
Yeah, I occasionally pay the Stupid Tax. But, I rationalize, you can’t win if you don’t play.
I trundle all this out to my truck and put the coffee, chicken, sandwich, and jerky in the cab.
The rest goes in the cooler in the back, on ice.
For later.
Back headed due west, I fiddle with the radio in my truck. I was a real HAM geek for years (WZ9AXI – KFZ 9605) and this radio proves it. It’s a mobile long- and shortwave receiver, as well as AM/FM broadcast radio. I’m currently fiddling with it trying to find Radio Moscow as I hum down the deserted highway.
It also can pick up certain law enforcement agencies radio transmissions. I’m no lead foot, never a ticket in over 45 years of driving, but I do listen occasionally for weather and road reports.
That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.
I roll into the outskirts of San Antonio earlier than expected. Given the lack of crosswinds, traffic, and the time of night; even with my pit stop in Mancos, I’m way ahead of schedule.
Which is great, as I realize that I’ve been slurping coffee for the last three hours and damn. I need to pee.
I whip into a What? A Burger? joint. I beeline to the head and make a fatter bladder flatter. I feel it necessary to purchase something since I’ve availed myself of their facilities so I go up to the front and order some more coffee.
“Java, java, java” I say, mimicking largeness exponentiated with each recitation.
The tired-looking guy behind the counter grouses, now he has to make a fresh pot. “No one else is going to want coffee for three maybe four more hours.” Damn, grouse, bitch, kvetch.
“OK, mate”, I say, “Forget the coffee, just a medium Dr. Pepper then, light ice.”
He brightens slightly and pours me a huge fountain Dr. Pepper, the largest they have.
“OK”, I say, bewildered, “How much?”
“Zip. It’s a freebie. Now I don’t have to make coffee. Enjoy.” he tells me.
“OK, you’re the boss”, I say, tip my hat, and head out to my truck.
I set this huge drink in my cup holder between the seats. It scarcely fits, so I slurp some of it down. No dice, it’s still metastable. This spills, it’s a soda tsunami.
Struck with an idea, I drain the last few dregs of my thermal coffee cup, grab some ice out of the cooler in the back, and transfer the drink to the iced capped cup.
“There. Not a problem.” I say as I fire up the truck, back out, and head on down the road.
Tooling down the road, its way early, 0-dark 30. Bars are all closed, and it’s before the graveyard shift gets off work. The road’s empty. I whizz past downtown San Antonio and off to the wilds of West Texas.
I’m smoking on one of my Fuentes Canoñe cigars, slurping from my Dr. Pepper, rocking out to Pink Floyd, and making great time. I’m not speeding, no need. I get there when I get there.
Then why the blinkered fucks are there red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror?
This thought is counterpointed by the shrill blast of a Texas State Trooper’s siren.
“Oh. Fucking delightfully peachy.” I grumble. I signal to pull over, stop, put on the parking brake, set the blinkers, shift into neutral, kill the engine, and put my hands on the steering wheel at 10 and 2, in plain sight.
“Tok, tok, tok” goes the trooper’s nightstick against my widow.
“Use your left hand and roll down the window.” He instructs me.
“Yes, sir”, I say as I comply, “Officer, I need to tell you that I am carrying weapons. I’m licensed for CCL, but by law, I must inform you.”
“OK, sir. Thank you for that”, he says. “Let me see them”.
I point with my thumb over my shoulder to my Easy Rider Rifle Rack and he shines his torch up there.
“10 gauge pump? Holy shit” he says.
“You like that, you’ll love this”, as say as I open the action, spill the shells, and hand him my empty, custom .454 Casull.
“Son of a bitch!” he exclaims, “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a .454 Casull Magnum. Used for hunting buffalo. Up close.” I say.
He laughs and hands me back my pistol.
“OK, sir. Can I see your licenses, registration, and proof of insurance?”
“Certainly”, as I hand him the required documents.
“OK, all seems to be in order.” He says, handing me back my paperwork, “You know why I’m stopping you?”
“No sir. No idea.”, I reply, “I wasn’t speeding, that I know.”
“No, but you were drinking. What’s in the cup?” he asks.
“My coffee cup? Why Dr. Pepper. Just got it the other side of Santone.” I note.
“And what’s that smell? You got any Mary Jane in there?” he asks.
“Nope.” As I retrieve my cigar. “Just this Fuentes cigar. Keeps me awake.”
“Ohh, I see. Let me see your coffee cup”, he asks.
“OK”, and I hand him my 64-ounce thermal mug.
He gives it a sniff and says “Yep. That’s Dr. Pepper all right.”
“Told you so”, I replied.
“My apologies, sir”, he continues, “It’s just that it's 0400 in the morning, I heard your music as you cruised past me back there. Then I see a glowing red cherry and you drinking out of a huge mug. Sorry, but that’s looks suspicious to me.”
“Not a problem, officer”, I say, “Best to be certain and make sure I’m not going off to New Mexico with a load of dynamite.”
He chuckles a bit, looks at me, and asks, “You’re not, are you?”
“Actually, yes.” I reply, “I’m not carrying any explosives at present, but I’m off on a job for the BLM, BIA, and Department of the Inferior. I’m a licensed blaster and I’m off to close some dangerous subsurface mines down.”
“Can I see your permit?” he asked.
“Which one? My domestic Master Blaster’s permit? My International Certificates? Or my certified ISEE permits?” I ask.
He just shakes his head. “No one who doesn’t hold all that can’t just make that up on the spot. Sorry to detain you, sir. Have a nice trip.”
“Not a problem, officer. “, I repeat, “Thanks for checking. I feel better out driving on these lonely roads knowing they’re being well looked after.”
“With your arsenal?” he laughs. “Thanks, sir. You have a good one now.”
“I will, good morning to you, sir!” I say brightly, spark up my cigar, take a pull on my Dr. Pepper, and fire up my truck.
He pulls out and it gone in a trice. I just chalk it up to the way things have been going of late and head back down the road, into the wilds of the American Southwest.
Dawn is breaking behind me as the sun slowly slouches up over the prairie behind me. I reach for my sunglasses and find out that, yep, I forgot the damned things.
Looks like we just had our glitch for this mission.
No way I can drive with that bright fusing ball of thermonuclear hydrogen chasing me all day.
A few miles down the road is another truck stop. I wheel in, park, and look around hoping to find a pair of decent cheap sunglasses.
They are either decent. Or they’re cheap.
And I seriously doubt ‘Ray-Ban’ is spelled with two ‘n’s.
I find a decent pair and cough up the $75. Oh, well, the Agency’s going to get this as field expenses. Perhaps they might have real Ray-Bans here…
Back on the road, I’m working on the remaining Dr. Pepper and see my bag of chicken crispies is almost empty.
Been snacking in overdrive, I think.
Oh, well. I drift past Ozona headed toward Fort Stockton. I’m making such good time, I decide to take a break around Fort Stockton and grab some real breakfast. I need to stretch as well, damn stupid back’s barking from all the road miles.
It’s only about three or so hours from Fort Stockton to El Paso, so I’ve got loads of time.
I find a local Ma and Pa roadside cantina. Normally I detest Tex-Mex chow, but there’s just something about breakfast burritos with chorizo and beef jerky.
It’s a Texas thing.
I stop in and it’s still fairly quiet. A few locals fueling up for the day, and me. I find a table and ask for a menu.
The matronly waitress asks if I’d like coffee.
“I’ve had enough coffee for a while” I smile back, “Sure could do with a cold beer, though.”
I was joking about that, but after I place my order for 3 breakfast burritos with salsa verde, she returns with a frosty mug of beer.
I’m not about to argue. It’s cold, it’s here, and it’s what’s for breakfast.
My breakfast arrives and I request another cold one. This is complied with almost immediately.
The burritos transport me back to the New Mexico Cuba Café and their magistra with breakfast fusion chow. The food is good, hot and above all, filling.
I was rapidly becoming blissed. I elect that a single further beer won’t hurt, but decided against it. I still have several hours of driving ahead of me.
The bill comes and I pay the extortionate price of $7. I leave a fiver as a tip. The food and service were that good.
Back on the road, it’s going to be a warm day. Window part-way down, I fire up another stogie, and head generally westward.
I have a reservation at the Super 9 Motel in El Paso. I wheel into town around 1300 hours and realize I’m a bit early to check-in. However, I decided to give it a go. I have nowhere else to be until later that evening.
The hotel was quiet, but my room was ready. Normally, check-in wasn’t until 1500, but since I was already here and the room had been serviced, they allowed me to.
I stashed the shotgun in the lockable toolbox in the bed of the truck, under the step-cap.
I brought the Casull into my room and locked it in the room safe.
I also dragged in my cooler, cigars, and other assorted necessary paraphernalia. Being able to park right in front of your hotel door made things easy.
I locked my truck, set the alarm, for whatever good that would do, and locked the room door behind me.
It’s wasn’t a suite at the Ritz, but it was clean, serviceable and cheap. I don’t always have to have the Executive Suite on the top floor. I’m used to this kind of lodging, remembering back to my Grad school days where I longed for a hotel room as I sat in my tent, being pummeled by a high desert thunderstorm.
I called a local cab company to take me down to the border around 1900 hours. No way I was driving across to Mexico and leaving my truck there. It’s bad enough that I have to leave it here in The Pass unguarded. Plus, I might just possibly have a sip or two while I’m south of the border. No need to drive after something like that.
I take a long, hot shower and flake out for a couple of hour’s kip. It might be a late-night tonight, and I need to give my back some rest.
Luckily, the hotel mattress is made of granodiorite, or so it seemed. I prefer a hard mattress to a soft one, like the ones that usually accompany a suite wherever I go. But this was even a bit unyielding, even for me.
Didn’t matter. I was out like a light in 5 minutes.
I wake after a couple of hours and see that I’ve got just enough time to get everything in apple-pie order before I head to Ciudad Juarez.
There is so much to see and do in Ciudad Juarez.
¡Es maravilloso!
One could visit the Benito Juarez Monument, or go to the Revolucion en la Frontera Museum, or visit the Archeology Museum, or see the Paquime UNESCO World Heritage Site. One could head south to the stunning white sand dunes of the Salamayuca Desert or tour La Parque Central.
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
I’m going to visit my old friend Martín who owns “Grandes putos cigarros” down on Camino del Tabaco in Ciudad Juarez. I’ll probably hang around his shop while his employees whip up a custom box of smokes for me.
Then, if the evening proceeds as usual, I’ll take Martín out to dinner. He’ll take me around town and we’ll go to several cantinas trying out different locally indigenous beverages. After this, Martín will try to get me to go to some of the quaint anatomical and animal shows down along Tourist Street (Juarez Avenue). Then we’ll end up at the “World Famous Kentucky Club”, trying to avoid scams, fights, naughty ladies of the evening, and other forms of semi-dangerous adult entertainment.
After which, I’ll pour Martín into a cab and I’ll head back north across the border.
It’s become a tradition every time I’m in this neck of the woods.
It’s exhausting. Well, best get going…
I cab it down to the border and walk across. No passport necessary at this time, my Texas Driver’s License suffices. Once across the border, I spark up a cigar; down here, I think that’s the law, and hail a cab.
Once the flying metal settles down, and the car fires are doused, I choose the least wrecked looking taxi and hope the driver speaks English a bit or I can follow his Juarez Español. I negotiate a fare, part with a cigar, and head off to Martín’s. The evening has begun.
Martín’s shop is a hole in the wall, which belies its grandness. Unobtrusive outside, once in there’s a large series of walk-in humidors, some heavily overstuffed chairs to sit and savor a cigar, and several walls full of lockers where like-minded folks keep their cigars. The whole shop is one huge humidor.
In back is where the magic happens. He has a dozen or so folks who are tobacco masters, hand-rolling cigars. Several are Cuban, who have immigrated to Mexico for this very job.
They’ve trained several others in the intricacies of creating unique cigars. They have a radio blaring Mexican Top-40 tunes, which seems to set some form of cadence. It’s low-tech, low-overhead, and highest quality.
Martín shows me around and introduces me to some of the older tobacco masters. He is proud to show me all the different styles and sorts of cigars his folks can create. Candela, Connecticut, Cameroon, English Market Selection, Colorado, Maduro, or Oscuro wrappers. Short or long filler. Tobacco from around the world, and styles of stogies and sizes to match.
After a bit of looking around, I decide I want a couple-three of boxes of Maduro Double Churchills. 60 ring-gauge (60 divisions per inch of ring), 8.5” in length and dark and oily as can be.
Today, a box like this would be easily $300, if not more. Here I am paying US$100 for three boxes of 25. I pay Martín and give him my hotel information. He assures me they’ll be delivered to my hotel before I leave for New Mexico.
In fact, it was this sort of affair where Martín and I became friends. I was down on a deer hunting trip some years before. It was much wilder and woolier then as Juarez was just another border town. Lots of drugs, lots of gangs, lots of violence. Martín was struggling to make his cigar shop something different. Something legal, something high-quality and high-class. Being new, he didn’t keep much in the line of stock, instead, he had it created, de novo, by workers in the back.
To be continued…