Psychos on the Road
In the very first thing I put up here about this trip, "Cass Explores the American Southwest," was about sitting in the car in the cold after midnight while Corrie checked into the hotel. But what wasn't discussed was the weirdness that happened when I took over driving.
It was just after 9 pm and Corrie had driven for a few hours, from the Farm after dinner and darkness falling to Santa Rosa, New Mexico. She pulled into a gas station and went to the john as I pumped gas.
As I stood there in the chilly breeze, a large camper towing an old Korean hatchback pulled across eight open parking spots right in front of the stations doors, and parked. Zero fucks to give, it seemed.
The driver jumped out and he was a caricature. He had a cowboy hat on, a scuzzy mustache, chewing a toothpick, and some kind of jacket over a dirty wife-beater. He stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time, and when Corrie returned from the bathroom, he stared at her for an equally uncomfortable amount of time.
I finished up with the gas and had to use the can as well, as did this guy, and his companion who had been riding in the hatchback. I hadn't seen the other dude before, and it was Corrie who told me about him getting out of the hatchback.
I was using one of the urinals when the weirdo cowboy guy and another dude came into the bathroom. Try and imagine a useless goon from any animated cartoon show. That's this guy. Big, doofus-looking, duh-face, an air of both menace and indifferent violence about this new guy, so much so that I wasn't shocked when Corrie said they were together: the pair had a storybook look and feel about them.
Anyway, the weird cowboy stared at me the entire time we shared the urinal wall, but seemed to ignore me as I ordered coffee. On my way back to the car, he said this to me:
"So, that's what California girls look like?" as he nodded towards our station wagon, plainly referencing both my blond wife and our California plates.
Another good reason not to be armed, am I right? Maybe the opposite of that? I dunno, but what I do know was the flood of images that barreled into my head at that moment, the vast majority of which have no place here. I simply smiled and tried to appeal to both his inner chauvinism and cowboy status:
"Well...mine does. But she's from Texas, so there you go..."
Quaint Flagstaff
On the last day, after leaving Grants and driving for a while, we made it to Flagstaff, Arizona, a quaint mountain and college town.
My own memories of Flagstaff were basically unpleasant, but from the POV of an eleven year old who'd just picked up lice in Tennessee or Arkansas, our shitty little motel room at the end of a long trip was just that: shitty, dingy, and beset by vermin of both the insect and train whistle varieties.
This time, as a place to grab a bite and a beer (since the bite was grabbed at a brewery) and to run the boy around for a while before strapping him into the car again for a few hours, it turns out we got a much more pleasant experience of the town.
The streets are narrow and cute, the vistas are likely incredible in the snow, and with Route 66 running through the center of town like the aorta, there's a steady stream of tourist attention and dollars.
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| Typical Flagstaff corner, not on Rt 66 |
I made a realization about this locale during this trip: There are two Arizona's. One is Sonoran Arizona, teeming with life despite the lack of rain and blistering summer heat, red boulders and saguaros and ocotillo that looks like a snapshot of an undersea plant waving in the current. Phoenix is the capital and Tuscon is the Chicago.
The other is the pine forest and ski town Arizona, and Flagstaff is the heart of it.
Flagstaff is worth the visit.
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