It was barely after six when we pulled into the church parking lot, some six or seven miles south of downtown Santa Fe. We hopped out and looked around. The usual suspects were all in attendance; the organizers and most visible workers in the various Albuquerque peace groups. I practiced the art of car identification when all the plates said New Mexico.
The church was a big'un, and on a street that it shared with no establishment other than an as-yet-unbuilt Baptist Church. To our right was the main church building, and to our left was a sort of activities building, where travelers were invited to sleep. I explored it a bit. It had three hallways—one branching both ways from the foyer, which terminated in another hallway on either end. I found a room which had what appeared to be men's sleeping bags, clothing, and toiletry kits. I found a room which had what appeared to be women's sleeping bags, clothing, and toiletry kits. I found a third room with sleeping bags that appeared to be child-sized. I checked the men's restroom, and saw that there were shower stalls. I found a soda machine and candy machine, but no coffeemaker.
I ran into an 81-year-old Mexicana, who was very friendly and filled with energy. I think she blessed me in Spanish.
Marvin arrived. He showed me the men's room, and the women's room. He didn't show me the children's room. He told me about the shower stalls. I asked if there was a coffeemaker. He told me there was not. I told him that that sucked.
We went back outside. We saw a woman, standing in the doorway of an RV, talking to Twain. Herbie was standing next to them, eating a salad. The woman was telling Twain how it really must be strange to have Hiroshima Day for a birthday.
"Every year on my birthday, as a child, my older brother would say, 'Happy birthday! Thousands of innocent Japanese babies died to bring you this cake!'" Twain said that, not the woman. She didn't say anything in response.
"Thank you for the salad," said Herbie, handing her his empty plate and fork.
The woman was from the Texas panhandle. She had food, a kitchenette, and a coffeemaker. She had a husband, who came out of the RV to say hello. She was born on Elvis's birthday.
"So was my ex-wife," I said.
"Who was born on your birthday?" she asked me.
"Alexander Kerinsky, and ten years later, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin."
"My goodness," she said.
"And Jack Nicholson," I added.
"How about that."
"A day before Shakespeare's projected birthday, although of course they're not sure."
"Oh, that's a nice one."
"And two days after Hitler's."
"I'm going in to mass," said Marvin. "Or, I'm going to go ahead and go in. Mass starts at 7:30. Are you coming…"
"No," said Herbie, Twain and I. "Maybe we'll knock about town for a bit," I said. Herbie produced from some hidden orifice a tiny and imprecise map of Santa Fe. We said goodbye to the woman on whose birthday my ex was born, and were off, three hep dudes exploring Santa Fe on a Friday night, me speaking at great length of how I needed a beer to recover from the trials of being in a church activities building.
Herbie's map got us safely to the town's center, which seemed to stretch a few blocks in any direction. "Is this it?" I asked, incredulous.
"It's the third biggest city in New Mexico," said Herbie. "Las Cruces is bigger, now."
"New Mexico is a small state," said Twain. Only one telephone area code, but Albuquerque's size gave me a false impression, I guess. Besides, Santa Fe was an old city, even by East Coast standards. But the truth is, even Albuquerque isn't terribly big; it just has a metropolitan feel not present in west or central Texas.
"So, do we know where to go for cheap beer?" I asked.
"Well, the square is over there," pointed Herbie. "But I imagine the farther we get from the square, the cheaper things will be."
I turned to Twain.
"Last time I was here, my older brother and his friends left me."
"We won't," I said, and led us in a random direction.
"We should find a bathroom," said Herbie. I was slipping into leader mode; partying in strange cities was definitely my department. I was also learning that Herbie has a bladder the size of a nickel. On the way up, Twain stopped at every rest stop because he likes to do that, so I hadn't really noticed earlier.
We passed a very crowded bar with a solid southwestern gun-over-the-bar theme, but it was far too noisy, and while not quite at capacity, looked pretty uncomfortable. I muttered about the value of drinking beer. We passed a swanky hotel bar in which I seriously doubted we'd be allowed to order. I muttered about the value of drinking tequila. We came to a pizza joint and entered.
A host seated us and gave us menus and a beer list. Herbie returned from the restroom, looked at the beer list, and said, "OK, you want a beer. So let's drink one beer here and then try to find a cheaper place."
"Sounds good," I said, as our waiter arrived. "Chips and salsa?"
"Chips and salsa?" asked the waiter, in a British accent.
"Please," I said. I turned my attention to the beer list. "How is this **** Special Lager?" I asked the waiter.
"Horrible," he said.
"Oh. Well, how about the **** Porter?"
"Pretty awful," he said.
"Oh. Thanks. What would you recommend?"
"Out of the local brews?"
"Yes please."
"Nothing."
I looked at him.
"It's cool that you're trying to get something local, but none of them are any good at all. Go with the microbrews. Every time."
"C'mon, man. I can get a fucking Newcastle at home. In a twelve-ounce bottle, no less. What's up with that, anyway?"
"Yeah, the bottles are pretty irritating."
"What of the local brews do you dislike least?"
"The Alien Ale isn't so bad."
"What's it like?"
The Brit made a gesture of infinite ennui. "If someone bought it for me, I'd drink it."
"OK, I'll take that," I said.
"Me too," said Twain
"I'll take a Newcastle," said Herbie.
"Santa Fe Alien Ale," Twain read aloud from the menu. "There's an Alien Ale made in Roswell, too."
The Brit brought us chips, some chunky (if mild) salsa, a Newcastle, and two bottles of clearly labeled Roswell Alien Ale.
"Ever get the feeling you're being robbed?" asked Twain.
"The bottom of this label," I said, "says that it's actually made in Santa Fe. So one could argue it's Roswell that's doing the robbing."
"They cost three bucks there and five here."
"There's that," I replied. I took a swig and looked around. There was a family next to us with a teenager daughter. I stared at her tits for a while, but her father didn't notice, so I loudly asked, "so why the fuck do people come here?"
"I have no idea," said the passing Brit, and returned to the kitchen. Deflated, I slumped, then walked over to the waiters' station, grabbed a bottle of hot sauce, and poured some of it into the salsa. That went well, for what it was worth.
"It's just a tourist trap, you know?" Herbie said.
"But what the fuck is trapping them? Why are people here? The architecture is different from the rest of the U.S., but every building is the same. It doesn't count as quirky when no one's coming up with new ideas."
"I don't think they're really allowed to," said Herbie.
"Yeah, I heard about that, building codes to keep everything in the 'Santa Fe style.' Tourist trap, sure. But a tourist trap has to have something appealing. Is the food here fan-fucking-tastic or something?"
"No," said the Brit, on his way to a table. Twain lit a cigarette.
"I'm sorry, he can't smoke in here," the Brit told me. We were on a patio. Twain wandered down the block for a bit.
"I'm sorry, man," I told the Brit. "Where should we go?"
"For good beer?"
"For cheap beer and good fun."
"Nowhere in Santa Fe. Sorry."
I considered him again. He either found us amusing or wanted rid of us – either way, he'd have no reason to lie about such a thing. I decided that he must just not know any better. We paid up and left, determined to find a blue-collar section of town.
"Let's check out the square before we go," said Herbie.
The square was dark, and lined with shops, and had a park in the middle. In the part were a bunch of covered tents. With the exception of the state capital, which was slightly less impressive than San Francisco's city hall, there wasn't much to see. A significant number of the shops were art galleries, most of which were pretty cheesy, and the others had unidentifiable, unmemorable knick-knacks of no particular sort. One or two of the galleries had some interesting pieces inside, which Twain used to distract me when he saw me looking for a rock.
A pretty young white woman stepped in front of us. She said she was raising money for greater racial equality in New Mexican government. Herbie asked her if it would help to have Texans sign her petition. She said she wasn't circulating a petition, she was raising money.
I stared at her for a second. Twain snorted and walked on.
Herbie smiled at her. "We're just poor peace activists," he said. "We're pretty broke."
She nodded and talked a little about how valuable her cause was.
"Do you have a mailing list?" I asked.
"Oh, we aren't signing people up for the mailing list tonight. We're just raising money."
This time, I stared at Herbie, who told her we were sorry and started walking. "I considered punching her," I said, "but she's probably a victim rather than the actual scammer, eh?"
"Oh, I don't know if that was a scam. I recognized the name of the organization."
"So did I," I replied. "But that doesn't mean she was affiliated with the organization she cited."
"True," said Herbie, doubtfully. "But I was working for a charity organization like that once, and we went out and raised money on street corners."
"Did it work? I mean, compared to mailings?"
"Well, we basically just covered our operating expenses."
"Then what was the point?"
"Oh, to raise awareness for the cause."
"No, I mean, what was the point of people giving you money?"
"Well, you know, to raise awareness for the cause."
This fit my definition of a scam, but there seemed little point in punching Herbie. We passed two men in their early twenties. One of them told the other, "this is a really great haven for artists."
"ARTISTS DON'T PAY FIVE DOLLARS FOR A BEER!" I screamed at them. They glanced at me and walked on. No one else much seemed to notice.
"Well, I guess we can go now," said Herbie. "I saw the square."
It began to rain as we stepped into the car. It continued to rain as we drove in spiraling circles away from the square. It rained as we failed to find a bar, it rained as we failed to find a restaurant, and it rained as we failed to find a club.
We did, eventually, find a liquor store with a sign advertising it as a club. We drove into the lot and puzzled about this a bit, as the rain abated.
"Maybe that's a club over there," I said, pointing to another building in the same lot. The lot was lit, though the building wasn't, particularly.
"It looks like the back of a club," said Herbie.
"Sounds good," said Twain.
"Hey, we're not going to get drunk at the club," I said. "I'm not getting a real 'cool place for Twain, Herbie, and Jonathan' vibe from it. Let's buy some beer at this liquor store before it closes. Then we can have a drink or two at this club, if it is a club, then go get drunk in the church parking lot."
Oddly, they agreed, and we walked into the liquor store. There were three generations of males therein. The oldest and the youngest, who was perhaps 11, were playing chess. The middle generation greeted us from behind the register.
I greeted him back, grabbed a 12-pack of Tecate, and a 24-ounce "high-gravity lager" that advertised 9% alcohol. I looked at the others, who shrugged.
"Y'all ain't from around here, are y'all," said the man behind the counter.
"Nope," I said.
"I can tell," said the man. "Y'all are too dressed up to be from Santa Fe."
At this point Twain justifiably broke out into hysterical laughter. That lasted a while, so Herbie and I watched the chess match. The 11-year-old reached out to make a fatal error, but either realized his mistake or felt Herbie and I tense. Hard to tell with kids. Twain stopped laughing, we paid and left. I placed the beer in the van, and Herbie promptly walked into the back door of the club.
Twain and I, surprised, followed. We opened the back door of the club into a private quinceañera1; a Mexican "sweet fifteen" party. The younger partygoers were dancing; the older partygoers turned around to stop staring at Herbie and stared at us instead. At the other end of the party was the front door of the club, where a small group of young men chatted and kept the public out. Herbie was entering the men's room. Out of some sort of obligatory comradery, I walked to the door of the men's room, and Twain followed. Herbie came out and looked around curiously; Twain and I escorted him back out the way we came.
We decided to head back in the direction of the church. We had passed a bar called "Tequila's" between the highway and the church. How could anything be more blue-collar than a proprietor named Tequila? But then…
"Tortilla Flat!" I said. "There's a restaurant called Tortilla Flat! Turn there!" Twain obliged. "How can anything called Tortilla Flat be overpriced?"
"In Santa Fe?" Twain asked.
"There's a bowling alley!" I said. Tortilla Flat was on a corner, and there was, indeed, a bowling alley down the street. "If Tortilla Flat is too expensive, the bowling alley will have cheap beer." I felt thoroughly reinforced. Surely, we had found fun.
It was 9:03pm. Tortilla Flat had just closed. On a Friday night.
The bowling alley was open. We swaggered in past the BUDWIESER -- $2.50 signs. It's a shitty beer, but where it lurks, so often does cheap MGD, and sometimes cheap Coors'.2 The bar was in an enclosure, and we cheerfully strode in and bellied up to the bar.
"Do you have MGD?" I asked.
"Can I see your ID?" the young woman asked us.
We glanced at each other, rather quizzically, and produced. The young woman carefully checked Herbie's, then Twain's, then mine.
"Your license has expired," she told me. "You can't drink here."
Outside, as we drove to Tequila's, the rain returned. Approaching Tequila's, we saw a parking lot overflowing into all adjoining business lots, four police cars, and groups of drunken clubbers everywhere. There was no queue, but we were clearly looking at a very crowded place; quite possibly the only dance club in Santa Fe. Twain had pulled off the main street to get to Tequila's, and when he saw the situation, he passed the lot and turned onto a small paved road that ran parallel to the main road, reasoning aloud that it must go somewhere. The road turned to dirt, and about two miles later, Twain very carefully turned his van around in the middle of the desert, with no driveways in sight, and I, totally defeated, suggested we return to the church.
"I'm hungry," said Herbie.
"I think I saw a Sonic up that way," I said, gesturing. "They'll be open."
Next to Sonic was our reasonably happy ending; we found the Blue Corn Café. The Blue Corn Café, I will now cheerfully tell you, is the only good place to eat in Santa Fe that is open past your toddler's bedtime. It will cost you at least $8 to get a burger, and it will be a damn good burger (my $9 burger had a delightful coating of blackened red chile), cooked as raw as you ask. If you want to spend less than $8 on a burger, don't go to Santa Fe. Oh, and the pitchers of Blue Corn's local beer are $11, but they're pretty huge, for what that's worth. They also have 75-cent beer samples, by which I learned that their porter is a little overdone, but their lighter ales are pretty good.
In the front of the café, Herbie picked up a paper, one of those free entertainment weeklies. He flipped through it.
"Wow," he said. "Check out these movie listings."
One of the few things I dislike about living in El Paso is the lack of availability of good film. Santa Fe, I admit, does not suffer in that regard. Twain and I bent over the paper, and saw an Israeli film, a Russian film, and a very large array of Japanese and West European films; stuff we knew we'd never see in west Texas.
"I'm impressed," I said grudgingly. "Though I don't know what good it will do us." A pause, then: "you know, I used to do that, in every new town I visited. I would always grab a local paper, and a free entertainment weekly. Even if I was only there a few hours, I'd read those. And at some point in my travels, I stopped. I don't know why. It's not like I stopped being fascinated by places. But I guess I just lost interest in the people in the places."
"Well, I've always had a really strong since of place," said Herbie. I stared at him icily for a second, then lost interest.
"We were talking, earlier, about Kurt Vonnegut," said Herbie. It was true. At lunch, in Socorro, I had made a crack about Twain, his driving methodology, and being unstuck in time, a la Billy Pilgrim of Slaughterhouse-Five.
"I saw him once, at university," he continued. "He said that the New Testament set people up for failure. He said that we all tried to 'love our neighbor,' and that was impossible. Of course we fail. When really, all we have to do to achieve world peace is 'respect thy neighbor.'"
I stared at him, my mind rebelling. I considered, briefly, all the people I've loved, and how much better off they'd be if they only had my respect. I considered, more extensively, all the people who have loved me, and how much better off I'd be if I only had their respect. I considered my ex-wife, and how after my divorce, I resolved that I would from thenceforth pick partners based on how unlikely they were to fuck me over if they stopped loving me.
The basic and central component of contemporary American thought is individualism. True, most Americans are not individuals, but individualism is nonetheless their watchword, passed down from those fleeing religious persecution, used as an anti-Nazi propaganda tool, and reaching its greatest height in Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Trek: Voyager. In those shows, the central mission of the American-centric humans was to defend civilization against an alien and evil intelligence who wanted to force us to merge into a collective consciousness, and lose our identities into the greater universe. Since losing one's identity into the greater universe is the purpose of sex, and the original Star Trek was by and large an advert for sex with Bill Shatner, I find that in some ways confusing, but it's possible I have digressed.
The flip side of individualism is narcissism (in its colloquial, not diagnostic, sense). The idea that right and wrong is based on the individual's sense of self. I refer not to subjective morality, which tries to find a moral answer to immoral situations, but the sort of narcissistic morality that allows one to assume that one's decisions are moral because they come from oneself, and that one's enemies are always immoral because they are the enemy of oneself. With a philosophy like this, those one loves deserve to be protected, and those one hates deserve to be destroyed. If one's sole sense of morals is based on individualism, morality never gets more complicated than that love/hate game.
In a society as narcissistic as ours, respect is inherently foreign; something outside of our emotional matrix. It is also the only way to deal with humanity. Good fences make good neighbors, and all that. I squirmed uncomfortably, knowing that I'd heard the most important thing I would hear over the weekend, but I'd have to get up at dawn anyway.
The kitchen closed at 11pm; last call was at 11:45. At midnight, Twain began singing "happy birthday to me," and Herbie, the waitress, the teenagers at the neighboring table and I sang in. He then tried to sing a round of "happy thousands-of-dead-Japanese day to me," but it didn't catch on. I asked the waitress if Twain could have a free dessert. She said not if it meant opening the kitchen. Free beer? Not if it meant extending last call, but come back tomorrow. Oh well.
We returned to the church, and Herbie went inside. Twain and I chose to sleep in the van; he in the far back, me in the passenger seat where I had napped so comfortably on the drive up.
Notes:
1In some parts of Mexico, this party still signifies that a young woman is of courting age. In the States, this party generally signifies that a young woman is considered of drinking age.
2Coors', which is no longer produced by fascists, is an excellent cheap lager that never came in a silver can.
