Out of ABQ

I've been in Lousianna for two days and the boat doesn't leave for another two. I've been down to the shipping office and everything is in order. I've been living a whimsical lifestyle for so long, I'm not accustomed to this stress that comes with a schedule. Ultimately, as I only know now, there was nothing to worry about; I'm early. But the three days it took just to get over the Sandia Mountains had me fearful through all of Texas that the Fates were against me.

I was chasing Interstate 40 out of Albuquerque, a slight climb across the low saddle south of Sandia Peak. Just outside of the city limits, just off the shoulder, stood a middle aged couple beside their old econoline van parked with its hood up. I pulled over shortly past them and walked back. They waved at me as I approached. Not excitedly, not desperately, but declamatory, as if that part of the highway were their land. They stood confidently, almost stoically.

Thinking I'd have been offerring them help, instead I felt more as though I were trespassing, selling vacumn cleaners to a kind but uninterested home; with the front door open and me standing nervous and dumb with a Hoover upright, I clumsily began my monolouge, "Afternoon, folks, how ya doin, beautiful day, I'm here for you, for your happiness, to simplify your life and save your marriage..."

"Everything all right," I said hesitantly.

"Oh, everything's fine," the man replied, "We just stopped to pray."

I looked over at the open hood and then back at the woman standing quietly but solidly behind him.

"And check the oil," he continued.

"God doesn't mind multitasking," the woman added with what seemed to me a flirtatious smile.

"We're done," he offered, "you're fine."

I felt guilty for my face had clearly betrayed me. It wasn't until later I discovered they were atheists who played their humor uncomfortably straight.

We introduced ourselves over the industrial hyperventilation of the interstate traffic. Terry was granitic. His shaved scalp was a smooth rock outcrop. His Scottish jawline was still apparent despite a long, unkempt beard. His chest and back were terranean, a tectonic hulk and bulk. I could not sense his strength from a distance. His clothes, off-the-rack vintage Sears, hung loosely on his frame. He had been an amateur boxer in the sixties. Never competitive, he still endured three years of touring dark, humid gyms for lack of any other interest. Forty years on and he never lost the physique.

We talked for only a short while there on the side of the road before Jean suggested I follow them to their cabin for lunch. Their cabin, though small, was of a precise craftsmanship, Terry and Jean's own, in which every joint seemed indiviudally measured and hand-cut. There was no clutter. Every accoutrement seemed purposefully chosen. Though nothing matched, it was all complementary.

Jean had shot a black bear cub only three days earlier, so I had my first taste of bear meat that day. It was tender and succulent like a slow braised pot roast. We drank cold, cheap beer and sat on the porch through the afternoon until the sun fell below Sandia Peak behind us. Jean remarked it was fine for me to park the the trailer there for the night, but that they'd be retiring early. They were creatures of habit, she told me, and Terry woke early. The next day he'd be building forms to pour footings for a house down the way. He liked to start at sunrise.
Myself, I'd hoped to be back on the road by noon. I'd use the morning mountain respite to put the trailer in order, inspired by the clean regularity of their cabin.

It was before noon, I was arrangig my foodstuffs, throwing out the boxes and cans I'd whimsically bought on grocery trips, but which I'd never eaten, and likely never would, when Jean knocked on the trailer door.

A knock on the trailer is a hollow, tinny sound, one that leaves you unfullfilled and anxious. Befor eyou even knock on a trailer, you feel invasive, knowing this is a personal space, and all the more invasive because the walls and doors are merely suggestive of security and privacy. It is like a woman wearing a revealing swimsuit, we go out of our way to pretend it is perfectly normal.

A knock and no answer; you know the trailer is small, and that its occupant surely heard you, and yet the seconds pass without a rustle inside. You keep from knocking again - for nothing seems so uncivil as disrupting the peace of a trailer. One has no such concern when visiting a house - a doorbell is rung, followed by a hard knock ont he door, followed by another ring of the bell. But it is not so with a trailer. The visitor waits anxiously, hoping to be sensed.

I paused with a can of beans in hand. Was that a tree branch blown against the side? Was that merely the door locking shut as my weight shifted the trailer? Too accustomed to my own solitude, I did not even think to ask if anyone was there. A few more seconds passed before Jean called my name.

I stumbled across the trailer and unclasped the door. Her persuasive confidence had dissapeared. She was clearly distraught.