One New Mexican Day

The day I met Alberto was a clear, sunny December day. I had seen him often from a distance riding a bike with a stereo mounted in a basket beneath his handlebars, playing all the local New Mexican tunes. I was walking up the hill towards my house at the same time as he, so naturally we fell into discussion.

He was an older man in his fifties or sixties, and not much taller than my height of 5'5”. He had a tanned, weather-beaten face, probably from hours spent walking and biking in the hot New Mexico sun.

As we passed rows of dingy trailers, their roofs covered with tires, he spoke in a slurred voice, barely intelligible: “I've lived here my whole life,” he said. “Long before there were paved roads in these areas. All of my familia lives in these houses.”

I nodded and he continued, “It's tough work on an old guy like me to walk all over this town. I get winded walking up this hill. But on Father's Day several years ago, I got my first DWI, so I went to my daughter Emma, I went to her and told her to sell my car so that it would never happen again. Now I just ride my bike.”

“Ah,” I murmured sympathetically, “That is sad.”

“It's good exercise,” he continued. “You know some of these houses are haunted. Mi hermana lives in a haunted house. I've seen the ghosts in them.”

Then he chuckled: “Nobody believes me. They say I was just high. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I was. It's hard to tell.”

We were nearing the top of a hill now.

“Are you ready for Christmas, mija?” he asked.

I laughed: “No, I've spaced Christmas.”

“I have a poor memory,” he said. “I'm not ready either.”

I laughed appreciatively: “It doesn't feel like Christmas time anyways. It's a warm sunny day.”

He turned towards a long dirt drive way with single wide trailers at the end.

“This is where I live,” he said. “Do you live near?”

“I still have a ways to go,” I said. “But it was nice talking to you.”

“Have a good day,” he said. “It was nice talking to you. I have nothing to do but go back and watch TV.”

I watched him as he walked down that dirt driveway with his bike. One of the single wide trailers had been blown apart in a heavy wind storm. You could see the interior now, where the walls and roof had been blown apart. As I stared, a shiny, bright yellow Camaro shot past me and turned down the driveway he was walking down. I shook my head at the sight. It looked completely out of place. Slowly I turned towards home again, walking past the broken pieces of beer bottles scattered along the pavement.

Ever since then, Alberto calls out to me when we pass and says hello. He thinks my name is Jennifer, and I have never bothered to correct him. Not surprising I guess, that a blonde would get called Jennifer, nor is it surprising he would call me that considering he was in his prime during the seventies and eighties when Jennifer was a very popular name.