He was far enough from Maine and had been
gone long enough so that he was beginning to realize that he didn't
live there any more. He rented a motel room and decided to eat in a
real Mexican restaurant, if he could find one. He asked around and was
told to drive out East Speedway and look on the left. Fairly far out
along a strip of gas stations, discount stores, and used car lots, he
spotted a substantial wooden building with a restaurant sign.
He parked and walked inside to another sense of time and space. The
dining room was cool and dark, purposefully shaded from the sun by old
timbers and thick walls. It was quiet. It might have been 1800 or 1600.
The awareness of time stretched further back than anything he had felt
in New England.
He ordered carne secca, beef flavored with intense dry spices that he
hadn't before tasted. He drank tequila and wine. A stern guitar
embraced the silence. At the end of the meal, Oliver had a final
tequila. To his astonishment, he began to cry. Tears ran down his
cheeks while he sat still, occasionally sipping his drink. When the
tears stopped, he dried his face with a cloth napkin and shook his
head. Much of the numbness was gone.
Pages:
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308