By DUARDO PAZ-MARTINEZ
ALPINE, Texas |...You could crash on a hard, concrete floor at an ancient rural bus station and find needed rest. Same for an unkempt roadside park along some interstate of the sort that is busy and noisy at three in the morning.
His worst place for sleep had been a dingy, all-night laundromat in one of those dusty, West Texas towns with the sort of name that just fits the harsh geography, like tiny Marathon, or smaller Pecos.
The weird thing there was that, yes, he'd been surprised to find a half-dozen homeless dudes sprawled out like unwanted French fries on the floor between the washers and the dryers. There was some irony there, was his feeling, one of those so close, yet so far away ironies for the ragged and scraggly haired men who no doubt needed a bath and a haircut.
Silence, however, also was part of that scene.
Grown, aging men tucked inbetween utilitarian machinery, few of the ever-rusting washers perhaps making them feel a bit more at home.
Up the quiet road, he drove past an old barn in much better shape, and he noticed someone had strung a rather large holiday wreath there between the large sliding doors. It was out in the open, facing the elements, but it looked as clean as anything he'd ever seen out this way.
For a brief moment, he thought that maybe he should have offered a few of the homeless winos a ride out of there. Perhaps seeing and smelling cleanliness would spark them to clean up, to feel the quiet and imagine a laundered set of clothes and a pretty gal clipping their mangy manes at a hair salon in town.
He was reaching for the radio dial on his pickup's dashboard, but then pulled his hand back. The silence of the night was music yet to be published...
-30-
I slept all night at the bus station in Dallas once. Tough crowd. But I was damned tired.
ReplyDeleteGreyhound, right?
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