Thursday, September 27, 2012

Truth or Consequencesq

Leaving Las Cruces after having said goodbyes to two wonderful grandkids, I reluctantly headed north into the darkness. I stopp for gas at the townn called Hatch, which is just a few miles west of Nut.. ans that is undoubtedly where ere these screwy names names must have been conceived, in the nut house. My destination? Truth or Consequences. I am not making this up. There is really a town in New Mexico so named , though one highway sign shortened it to "T or C" probably to save space on the sign for the two other cities that precede it, Derry and Arry. Say those two real quickly and it sounds like the French word for buttocks. Before long another sign informed me the next four exits would send me to various aspects of T or C, the first of which was the Truth or Cosequences Historic Hot Springs area of town. Now I HAD heard of this, motels and B&B's offering not only rooms but access to the city's acclaimed hot mineral springs (no doubt heated by some secret underground Hell). My aching heart and tired back yearned for some kind of pampering. Earlier in the day my Las Cruces son said he had heard that there was a single theatre in the town where a single person sold you your ticket, the same a ancient man took it, and later sold you drinks and popcorn. Before the movie started, the same old man would climb a small stage in front of even smaller movie screen and speak to audience of less a hslf dozen just as in the olden days of cinema: "Well, folks we've got a great movie tonight, lots of excitement and thrills, staring and up and coming actor--Steve McQueen in "Bullet"! I slowed my car to near crawl, wondering if the theatre was still in business. A throw back to mid 20th century America Small cafe's, shoe stores that, get this, actually offered to repair shoes, and some very old school bars. But there was not a car in sight, not even a single homeless inebriate staggering down the streets. Very dark and creepy. And drove on and rolled down the windows, listening for any hint of human habitation, and staring at silent storefronts. I got tired of listening to sounds of my tire treads, and turned downn aside street when I got glimpse oa neon sign, above a tired group of shacks that claimed to be a motel offering access (in your room?) to the famous hot springs. But the sign did not proclaim vacancy, only that the were open-- open for what? I &could see no evidence of a lobby to check in (and out?). Darker and creepier still. I locked all the doors, sped around two corners and eased mydelf onto the zombie mainstreet thst would eventureturn me to the s Some part of my mind warned me that this was a place where the inhabitants ate tourists and then happily threw their bones to backyard trolls. I sped around the corner, returned to thr small town main street of death and drove on. After an eternity of driving, I began to see ocassional people, and eventually recognozable franchuses like Motel 6. I was ready to sto for the night . A hot shower was on my mind and much more appealing then being cooked in hot spring and food for the local zombies. Did this city even exist during daylight hours? A polite but efficient septugenarian met me at the desk. One room left this evening, nonsmoking, and I would have to access from the back starecase. Whatever. I staggered in with my first load of luggage, was about to take my first step up the tired staircase when I froze. Was that a huge log of human feces straddled across the third step? Again the ridculously tired part of my mind said "Whatever." WHat kind of person would do such a thing and why? Fifty more yards might have gotten this bowel plagued guest to the marginal comfort of Motel 6 toilette... Or was malice, some sort of intentionally disgusting behavior the root cause? The room was nothing that would have excited Mr. Trump, but once in I was rewarded The room was nothing that would excite Donsld Trump I sped rapidly aroun a corner tp the twilight zone main street. Evevtually, people a