A Taste of Tucumcari

Chapter Three

A Taste of Tucumcari

 

THE NEW MEXICO State Fair was being held in Albuquerque. The drive from Amarillo, Texas to New Mexico’s biggest city would be four hours of desert and dirt. We got up before daybreak, so we could make it there in time to sign up, and more importantly, before lunch.

       Unfortunately for my jubilant father, I am not a morning person.

       He had to knock on my door four times before I grudgingly pulled myself out of bed, and my stiff legs dragged me to the kitchen. There are two things I require in the morning before I’m classified as “alive:” food and a shower. That having been said, I shuffled into the kitchen, yawning. However, I felt a little better knowing that I’m not the only one who’s dead in the morning. No, my dad is the purest of morning glories; it’s my dog that hates mornings almost as much as I do.

       Our dog did not like the idea of going along with our rise-before-dawn-and-get-moving-right-away strategy, so he lay sprawled out in the center of the hallway defiantly. First " because I was still dead " I didn’t know what exactly I stepped on; only that, there was a growling lump directly under me. The dog’s fur tickled my feet, and I hopped away, startled. The lump rumbled a few times in complaint, and let its head fall back down again with a thud.

       “Sorry, Watts,” I told him. Watson was our beauteous mongrel-dog. His past was mysterious, his ancestry of untraceable decent. He was a pure-bred mutt. I loved him anyways. He was white with brown splotches all over his back, sides, and head, like paint flung from giant brushes. Watson had one ear that stood straight, but the other was kinked. If it had been up to me, his name would have been Dinky.

       But my dad had him before me. Most people who hear the name think we got it from Sherlock Holmes’ side-kick, Dr. Watson, but my parents named the abandoned puppy after Robert Alexander Watson, the man who invented the radar locating of aircrafts. Of course, no one knew, so Dr. Watson was often his nickname. The name “Hyde,” was considered, because of his mood swings, and even “Crusoe,” after being found on the streets and never claimed.

       I was busy scarfing down my toasted waffles voraciously when I heard my dad exit the bathroom. There was a solid thump, an inhuman yelp, and a surprised, “whoa,” all simultaneously, as my dad tripped over Watson and stumbled into the kitchen. His hair was still wet from a shower. I swallowed my last mouthful and hopped off the countertop. As I made my way around my dad, I tripped over my own feet but caught myself on the wall.

       “Ugh,” I scowled. “There was a foot there.” My dad breathed a chuckle. It’s going to be a long day…

 

By the time we drove through Tucumcari, New Mexico " about halfway to Albuquerque " my stomach was roaring like a lion. “Good grief, Is! You had breakfast right?”

       “Yeah,” I muttered.

       “So you just ate. How can you be hungry again?”

       “I’m fifteen,” I defended. “I get hungry every two hours.” My dad glanced quickly at the car’s clock, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

       “We don’t have time to stop to eat,” he protested. I leaned over and tapped the fuel monitor, the arrow sinking closer to the little, red E. My dad sighed in defeat. “We can get some snacks at the gas station.”

 

The station was tiny and smelly, but I was happy to settle my demanding stomach. After we got some gas, we went inside to get some snacks, and my father had to use the facilities. I waited resentfully outside the grungy building, breathing in the sweet haze of cigarette smoke and gasoline. On top of the fact that I’d been forced out of my warm bed earlier than any sane person should have to be, the fumes of the nasty smells instantly threw me into a rotten mood.

       I was reclined leisurely against the front wall next to the big ice containers, probably with a face that hinted towards my foul mood. I didn’t notice the kid a few yards away from me until he spoke. “Lose a bet with your hairdresser?” he asked, amused. I turned my head at the sound of his voice, seeing a boy no older than I, leaning against the wall casually. His shaggy, unkempt black hair hung into his laughing eyes. He wore a leather jacket that glinted in the sun as he reached to his mouth to take a drag from his cigarette. Normally, I would ignore the snotty comment on my hair; often someone mentioned something rude about the purple and blue highlights that hung from it. But I couldn’t let this one pass.

       “Lose a bet with your parents’ gene pool?” I snapped. The boy smiled, satisfied, and reached to his back pocket.

       “Want a smoke?” he queried, holding out a pack of cigarettes.

       “No thanks,” I answered curtly, averting my eyes. I took a sudden interest in the oil blotch on the pavement in front of me.

       “Chicken?” he gambled. I could tell he wanted to see my reaction.

       “I’d rather be a live chicken than a dead person,” I countered. Hurry up, Dad.

       The boy looked content as he slid the pack back into his pocket. “Fair enough. I’m Billie Joe.” He held out a hand. I stared at it for a moment, then slid my back down the wall and sat on the dirty ground. “Ouch.” His hand dropped.

       “Is there something you want, Billie?”

       “Actually, I prefer my full name.” He didn’t go on. I heaved a deep breath.

       “What do you want, Billie Joe?”

       “Your name would be nice.” Billie Joe threw down his cigarette and smothered it with the toe of his shoe.

       “Isabelle,” I mumbled. There wasn’t a response, so I checked the door again, impatiently willing my father to hurry.

       “So, Belle, you waiting for something?”

       “It’s Is,” I corrected, shooting Billie Joe a glare. “And yes.” As if on cue, my dad came sauntering out the door. I clambered to my feet.

       “Ready?” he asked.

       “Yeah. Let’s go. The sooner we get to the hotel, the better.”