Dry Heat - Part One

SATURDAY

This is the second consecutive trip in which I have been randomly screened by airport security. After passing through successfully, I sit and watch as others are pulled aside. No one is nonchalant. They shoot flabbergasted looks toward their traveling companions.

"Oh my God, me?! Selma, look! They think little old me could be a terrorist!"
"For gosh sakes! That Latino man just went right through!"
"Look! He's making me spread my arms like I might have a weapon!"

One man finishes the screen and walks toward the seats to my left. A woman his age and a teenage girl are waiting for him. He is speaking in a foreign language - East Europe sounding. Maybe they are from Strawberry Hill, across the river. I listen to him speak, wondering if it's profound or useless chatter. If he was speaking English, I would assuredly be mocking his words. Since it is Russian or Croatian or else, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

The mother begins to assemble lunch. Empty paper cups appear from her carry-on bag. Hen House lunchmeat, possibly bologna, definitely smelly. Bread. One half gallon of milk. She builds modest sandwiches and hands one to her daughter and husband; she pours the milk. I consider the logistics required for their rushed meal - I calculate the odds of a resulting foodborne illness. Is there an ice pack in the bag? What are they doing with the leftovers?

The flight is Southwest. I am among the last to board, but get a decent isle seat next to a thin woman with a book - an ideal neighbor. The first short story in my new book is about death. The second is about low self-esteem. The third is about death and guilt. This trip will not be relaxing.

I do not want to stop my session mid-story, so I close the book as the plane descends. Almost by mistake, I catch a glimpse through the window at the earth below. There are mountains, and for a moment I am shocked. I have not seen mountains in more than five years. This is my first trip to New Mexico. I've never been near it. The airport floor is brick, or, more precisely, has been fashioned to look like red brick. Wheeled luggage clicks relentlessly. I want a word with the architect.

It will be hours before my room is available. The clerk stores my luggage, and his associate gives me directions to the old town district. I turn right and walk to Lomas. I turn left and walk for about 15 minutes. It is hot but I don't care - this is what people mean when they say, "It's a dry heat." I picture myself as a local, tanned after a few days in this sun. I am the bassist from Albuquerque's own The Shins.

Hispanics are gathered in the quad of Old Town. A nearby church has something to do with the celebration. Music plays over a PA as a man in the gazebo sings. He looks like bullfighter, minus the cape; he sings different songs in Spanish. They sound the same to me. I sit on a restaurant patio and eat flat chicken enchiladas. I can't see the entertainer from here, but I can see much of the crowd, and I can hear him all too well. He makes very brief conversation with the crowd between each song: he has been here many years in a row, his family has come from Dallas to see him today, he is happy to be here. I pay after sopapillas, looking at photos under the glass at the cashier's stand. John Kerry is in two of them. Gloria Estefan is in one. These should all be on the wall.

I make a lap in Old Town. Some shops sell jewelry. Others sell jewelry. A few even sell jewelry. He is still singing - the man's voice is tireless. This is why they keep asking him back.

The museums are on my way back to the hotel. I choose the natural history museum. It is a mistake.

I walk through neighborhoods on the return trip - the multitude of law offices on Lomas (immigration?) were not nice enough to see twice. The Shins are in my head. I can't relate to their lyrics - I do not smell the engine grease and mint the wind is blending. I don't smell anything. I am suddenly aware that I don't hear anything, either. No dogs bark. No lawnmowers run. Even the breeze can't be bothered to make a sound. It's three o'clock on a Saturday but quiet like a snowstorm. I consider if desert is an insulant, like snow. I reject the hypothesis.

Downtown features a handful of tall office buildings, almost all of which are named for banks. They are squatting, hiding behind the mountains that circle the city, apologetic for their non-adobe abilities, a tall man between yourself and the movie screen.

My hotel room faces south. I can see baseball stadium lights a few miles away. Every time I look at them in the next few days, I will think, "You hear that, folks? He said, 'Go 'Topes!'".

I'm too late to see Crash, so I decide to see Layer Cake. The movie ticket costs $9.25, and my $.75 of change goes to a charity that seems to be supported by a smiling black and white photo of The Rock. I start on two generous scoops of Dreyer's rocky road ice cream - my dinner - as the trailers begin. Later, The Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" is used perfectly. If I could show everyone this scene, they would understand why I was disappointed with Garden State's use of "Caring is Creepy".

My walk home takes me past the bus station. A vagrant is yelling at a better-dressed man who wants the bus to take him away from the situation. Two uniformed policemen watch from twenty yards away.