God Bless You, Man

No choice but to continue on in the vein of cold. I can sit here for 10 minutes until that timer rings, I know I can. It's snowing out there again and the brunt of the last storm in a long series of storms will hit toward morning and through tomorrow. It's Christmas and things seem quiet out there, although I didn't stop in anywhere to find out. I'm melancholy, but the cold makes it hard to sustain; melancholy seems to need some warmth to feed it. Right now, there's too much survival instinct to sink far into the simmering, syrupy soup of it. I felt it in the car when the heater was cranking, slowing me down, snow slanting sideways in the streetlights of the main drag. Even the dusty blue lights of police cars reminded me of times when I was behind the lines, unseen, unheard, uncared for by the strangers around me. But now that I'm home, tending the fire trumps. And I think of the couple that flagged me down in the Plaza as I was slurking around, looking for something to snag me. The guy was carrying a big cardboard box and the woman yelled at me. I thought they were pissed off because I drove too close to them, and I was pissed off that they were pissed off because they were walking right in the middle of the road. But some pull underneath made me stop and lower the window. "Hey," the blond woman in cowboy hat and tight jeans said, "can you give us a ride my Dodge truck is broke down?" My stomach was tight, I was in the skin of my own slightly agitated world, and I didn't want to. I said, "I'm pretty much where I was heading...but..., sure, where do you need to go? The guy, big shouldered, mustache, goatee, sunglasses, very smooth, pearly skin, but wide-faced, maybe half Mexican or native american, said, "God bless you, man. We're heading down to the Sagebrush Inn." I leaned back and moved my laptop and computer bag over to make room for him. She sat next to me. They smelled of wet wool and cigarettes. She had battered brown suede cowboy boots, gray-blue eyes and a mouth that had extra slack in the corners. Her hair was yellow straw and curly. They seemed like country musicians and sounded like Texans. I asked where they were from and she said, "Houston or close by." She did most of the talking and I found out she once lived in Roswell and did a bunch of camping and hunting in the Lincoln wilderness. This was their first time in Taos and they were skiing, getting high, meeting people. She said she used to sing in a band, but "fuck it, that shit is crazy." She said her friends from Texas were afraid of New Mexico because "it's too wide open, too exposed." I was pretty quiet, but I liked these guys. He chimed in with a "God bless you, man" a few times, but not in a religious way. She asked if there were a lot of rich retired people here. And I said, "not that many, I mean it's not a retirement community, but there are some rich older people building big houses that sit mostly empty." He said, "Yep, the white man wastes. It'll come back to haunt 'em." I said, "There're a lot of people who could use housing and those places just sit there empty 3/4ths of the year. They should have to give up the space for housing." She said, "There should be a serious tax for that." When we got to the Sagebrush, he asked me if I wanted to come to their room and smoke a bowl. I told him that would be great, but I was off smoking, drinking and anything else for a while. On a cleanup period. He said, "Too bad, man, but God Bless. Let me give you some money." I said, Nah, man, no need." He reached into his wallet and pulled out a $20. "Take it, man, really. Merry Christmas." I took it and thanked him. She said they'd be hanging out at the hotel bar later if I changed my mind. Three months ago, I probably would have, but I couldn't enter their world, not right now. I couldn't even enter my world. So, there's my Christmas story. It felt good meeting them, Karen and Steve, and I took that $20 and went to the movies.