One Afternoon in New Mexico

Driving alone on U.S. Route 66  through New Mexico in a car with no speedometer is problematic. There’s no way to gauge your speed except by the tune of the engine and the tires on the pavement, and the slow truck I passed half an hour ago just passed me. I sped back up, once again wishing the radio worked. 

The highway turned into the main drag of some small town. Baking under a merciless sun was an intersection with a stop sign, a two-pump gas station, and a small building floating in an empty sea of gravel with no cars in it. A sign said “open.” From the name, it looked like a Mexican restaurant, and it felt like it was about lunch time, so I pulled off the highway and parked by the entrance. It was a hot day and as I walked around the front of my old Chevy I heard the engine ticking as it started to cool down.

It was cooler and dark inside. There was a scattering of empty tables and chairs in the area in front of the kitchen. I took a seat. 

The waitress was probably the owner, and the cook. She appeared and set a glass of water down and looked at me. I set the menu down and said, “I’ll have a bowl of the chili.  And a coke.”

“Green or red?” 

It took me a second. If I was from around here, I’d probably have an opinion about that. “What’s the green chili?” I asked. 

Without skipping a beat she replied in her thick Mexican accent, “The green chilis are younger.” I was only eighteen. What did I know from green chili? A red flag way back in my subconscious started waving back and forth trying to get my attention. 

“I’ll take the red, I guess.” She smiled and nodded and disappeared into the back. A few minutes later she returned and set my glass of iced coke down as well as a thick, white ceramic bowl full of chili--red chili.

I ate some of it, and it was good--real good--maybe a little spicy for my taste, but bearable. I ate some more. Outside, another car pulled up next to mine, its tires crunching on the hot gravel, and four guys got out. They were about my age and demographic, wearing blue jeans and t-shirts and fooling around and laughing too loud as they got out of the car. The came inside and occupied a table near the door. 

As I finished my bowl I watched this little drama play out. There was laughing and joking that stopped only long enough for one of the boys to order. “Chili,” he said.

I waited. 

“Red or green?” More laughter and the guy said, with perhaps a tint of bravado in his voice, “Green.” A moment later the owner returned with the bowl and set it down. The boy picked up a spoon and ate him a big mouthful while his friends giggled. 

He stood abruptly. “God DAMN!” He bent over the table and grabbed a water glass and drank, and some water spilled onto the front of his t-shirt.  His friends laughed even more loudly. I figured this guy must have lost a bet. 

I got up and paid the lady. She was friendly and polite and paid no attention to the rowdy bunch at the table. I walked around them and went outside, got in my car and left. I pulled onto the highway and accelerated until the singing of the tires sounded about right, and wished again that the radio worked.