Wisecracking Across America - 52. Chapter 52

Saturday, July 3, 1999

Before leaving, we quickly explored Fort Stockton, not that there was much to see. At its modest edges, the roads simply turned to dust. There had once been an actual shoot-'em-up fort there, back when well-intentioned immigrants were taking over from more established folk---that's the nicest way I can put it. Fort Stockton had been one of a chain of armed outposts, and innocent people died there. Now their pictures, and some of their clothes, lived on in the Annie Riggs Museum.

The building had once been a boarding house, which conjures clapboard and wallpaper, but was nothing like that: Slab adobe walls, flatly painted. One-story rooms, surrounding an outdoor courtyard where nothing had ever grown. Photos of unsentimental Annie and the men she cooked for decorated the main room, along with hand-colored Victorian prints. The kitchen had been restored to some period that was neither Annie's nor accurate, with nineteenth century cook ware mixed with Depression era plates. The resident historian largely sold books.

"I just started here," she gamely admitted, once I'd rooted her out---Tom and I were the only visitors. The previous gatekeeper had probably died of boredom.

There was no air-conditioning, but the thick walls, high ceilings, and shutters kept the heat to the mid-eighties. That was cool considering the outside firestorm. The dog had to stay on the front porch, but even leashing her in the shade, with a bowl of untippable water, wouldn't assure her existence---so Tom and I stayed less than an hour. The displays were slim and haphazard: this was less a museum than a garage sale by people who never had much to sell. In empathy, Tom bought some handmade lye soap, should we ever need to beat our jeans against rocks. I bought postcards.

A couple of blocks from Annie's was a section of restored fort, though most of what had survived the hundred-year baking---largely a half-dozen mud officers' houses---had already become part of the town. But there was the jail, suitably stark and stone, with iron grate doors and almost no light. To let tourists see what they'd escaped, electric-eye floodlights snapped on when you broke their lasers. Nearby, in a barracks rebuilt on its original foundation and overly air-conditioned---which we certainly didn't mind---was an exhibit of Indian outfits hung on contemporary mannequins. The bodies were blue, maybe to insult no one, though the identifying plaques clearly read Indian, not Native. And the poses were eccentric: High Fashion, big on Attitude. All they needed was a Hip Hop score.

We soon labored northwest, through Pecos to Carlsbad, a short hop, but the heat pushed the truck's air-conditioning to the limit. Still, it held, though we paused often for water. Arriving early, we settled into our passable motel, wishing something better were available. We'd reserved ahead because we planned to stay for two days and needed someplace cool to stash the dog while we explored the caverns. But by the time we knew when we'd reach Carlsbad, all the good places had been taken.

Kennels were available at the park, but Tom wasn't sure to trust them, especially on a big holiday. And though the dog tended to fret when we slipped out of sight, she'd had almost two months in motel rooms, and they were definitely more comfortable than cages. She could bounce, unauthorized, on the beds, sip, in an emergency, from the toilet, and we always left on the TV to distract her---meaning she probably knew more about making crepes than any dog needed to.

Our guide books offered two possible restaurants for dinner, and we chose a quasi-French one. French in the desert? How weird can you be? Plus, as we walked in, from behind, the hostess looked like just my mother.

She wasn't. She was Asian. But the coincidence was as unsettling as the restaurant was pink. The food started as edible and became almost good by the time we finished. Though no overtipping here, and no sad songs.

Still, it was early, so we drove around town, mostly sighting malls. And franchises. Uninteresting architecture. There was a museum, which, logically, was closed on a Saturday night. But I wasn't tired. And Tom wasn't, either. And even the dog was alert.

We could have dropped her in our room and gone to a movie. The newest one playing was Star Wars, Episode One, which opened while we were in Oregon. But just because we hadn't seen it then---there was a line, even at 10 PM---didn't mean we had to now. Actually, we'd gone the whole trip without straying near a multiplex, mainly catching bits of films on motel cable, identified by guessing.

"Is that Vanessa Redgrave?" Tom would ask.

"Yeah. With Dustin Hoffman."

"In the 20's?"

The awful Agatha. Who cared where Ms. Christie went when she vanished for a week?

"That Hoffman again?" Tom asked some weeks later.

"Yep."

"Who's the woman?"

"I don't know. Lorraine Bracco? Rene Russo?"

Outbreak, filmed in Ferndale, where we'd been. Which still didn't make it watchable, but offered distractions.

"Look, there are the bathrooms," Tom pointed out, as Ferndale's gingerbread tourist johns zipped by. It was a chase scene, on Main Street, with handheld cameras.

I hadn't worried about staying busy, though had packed a book in case things ever got dull. I never opened it. I'd also brought a deck of cards, but what was I thinking? Three-handed Poker with the dog? That night, Tom went to sleep early, and I wrote.

164 miles