From the boarded-up Tastee Freeze a mile east of Springer, New Mexico, to Cox's Stop and Go, it is 71 miles. Unless you count a small cemetery on county road AA, a hawk perched on a telephone pole, and a dead '54 Studebaker in a ravine, there is nothing of interest along this route. The only mystery on highway 56 in this northeast portion of New Mexico, is why Cox has high hopes for his convenience store.
Cox examined a small bag of M&M's, looking for its expiration date. Too young for bifocals, the proprietor held it at arm's length. A film of dust covered the package suggesting that the date had passed. It had.
He sighed.
"Mrs. Trumbull."
The humming of the cooler at the back of the store competed with Cox's voice for Mrs. Trumbull's attention. The elderly woman was searching the dairy products for a pint of skim milk for her raisin bran and for her cat, whose increasing weight was causing Mrs.Trumbull an increasing concern.
"Mrs. Trumbull."
She backed out of the cooler, her woolen hat and scarf still in place and worn to protect her from the chill of a February morning. The garments also came in handy in her search for the skim milk.
"Yes?"
Cox had moved on to the chocolate-covered peanuts, seniors themselves, on the candy rack.
"I've got a sale on M&M's today."
"How much?" she asked.
"Half off."
"No thanks. You got any skim milk in pints?"
"No ma'am. When they build the wind farm, I'll have more business. I'll have more variety in the store. More turnover."
"I'll guess I'll take the quart. I'll tell Old Man Foss you got the sale on."
"Thanks." Cox nodded his head because he knew Old Man "Foss", Bill Foster, would be in at 2:45, and would take the deal on the M&M's because he won't look at the date, or, if he does, he won't be able to see it, or, if he can see it, he won't care what it says.
But, other than Foss and a few more regulars, Cox's candy sale was at the mercy of travelers who thought highway 56 east out of Springer, New Mexico, would provide a shortcut to Kansas City. Or, the good price would interest tourists who incorrectly thought the beautiful mountains and plateaus of northeastern New Mexico would continue east, at least to Kansas. Little would they suspect that points of interest along highway 56 would only be Cox, Mrs. Trumbull, William (Foss) Foster, about ten more older people of similar habits, Mrs. Smithson, the former librarian of the former library, and a hound dog named "Possum."
Cox is the youngest of the group, although it could be contested that Possum is younger. At one time, the store owner considered getting an associates in business at the community college in Trinidad, Colorado, but he doubted that his 1986 Chevy pickup would make it the two years, covering the round trip several times each week. Or, maybe he'd wait for the price of gas to go down, given that the pickup traveled every eleven miles on a gallon. Or, maybe the new wind farm rumored to be coming to this part of the state would bring business so he could hire another employee to free Cox up for his studies.
Mrs. Smithson, the former librarian, encouraged Cox to advance his education. She told him he'd learn about marketing and management and something called human resources and asset management. She did not mention inventory control because she saw that Cox had already reached his quota of new words. But Mrs. Smithson had nothing to fear. The seed was planted, and the idea would grow on Cox, as did the dust on the empty shelves of her former library.
Cox possessed good business sense, the expired M&M's notwithstanding. When the irrigation equipment and supplies business failed out on the highway, Cox bought the building and turned it into "Cox's Stop and Go," as it says on the business license hanging on the wall of the gas station that is always called "Cox's" by its customers. Next to the license was a certificate from Golden Lanes Bowling Alley showing he had bowled a 300 game, and next to that, a photo of a black Mercury Grand Marquis.
When he installed the three pumps in front of the building, he didn't squander good cement in the driveway surrounding the machines; a layer of gravel was sufficient for the traffic. And, to serve his curiosity, Cox placed the cash register in the front of the building so he could look out the windows east and west to see customers approaching and guess the nature of the traveler. Because his business was located on a rise in the road, he could see miles each way, and first notice the approaching motorist by the small speck they made on the horizon.
Old man Foss came in at 2:45. He bought four packages of M&M's and asked if gas was half off, too.
"Foss, you don't drive any more. You wouldn't buy any gas at 10 cents a gallon."
Foss handed the final penny of the transaction to Cox, happy that he finally found it at the bottom of his pocket, hidden beneath the nickels and dimes.
"I still have the old Buick. I could get it goin' again and drive to church if I had to."
Cox pitched the penny into the March of Dimes jar. "I'm not worried by that threat."
Foss looked offended. "I mow my yard with my gas-powered mower."
Cox smiled. "You got me on that, Foss. How many gallons you want?"
"Don't need any right now."
Cox handed the sack of M&M's over to Foss. "You got grass in your yard?"
"Depends what you call 'grass'."
"That's what I thought. You haven't had any grass for the last twenty years, have you."
"I ain't been countin'."
"I have. It's been twenty years."
"Maybe so." The gentleman harrumphed.
Foss headed out the store and stopped when he reached the edge of the highway. He looked slowly to the east, and then back to the west. One more glance east and he put his first foot onto the pavement. Then a glance west.
"Cox?" An older person's voice screeched into the convenience store phone. Cox knew it was Daisy Foster, Old Man Foss' wife. "Mrs. Foster, he just left."
"Is Foss at your store?"
"Yes Mrs. Foster. He just left. He's safely across the highway, heading home."
"He's coming home?"
"Yes, Daisy."
East down the highway in the direction of Dodge City, Cox noticed a small point on the horizon. He watched it to see if it grew larger. It did. Miles away, it would take a long time to discover the nature of the traveler. He formed his first guess: a pickup. He knew it would stop at his store. They all did.
It was blue.
Then, it was an older vehicle, a Chevy.
It was Butch Riddick's 1997 Chevrolet Silverado, extended cab.
Butch works for the corporate farmers who plant crops around the area. Crops that depend on the irrigation equipment that Butch maintains. He passes Cox's several times a day, this time with three strangers in the back seat. Cox pulled a 5-gallon gas container from the utility closet, guessing correctly the problem Butch's riders had met.
"We thought we could make it," said the strangers.
Cox filled the container with gas.
"Where you all coming from?"
"Dodge City."
"That's too far to make it on a tank. Unless you got one of them highbirds."
"Nah, it's a Ford Windstar, a minivan."
Butch loaded up the strangers and the gas, and pointed the blue Chevy back to where it came from. Cox watched it grow smaller, but let it go on its own to become a speck on the horizon.
There were other specks that day. Indeed, the next one appeared on the western horizon. It was black, maybe dark green. And, unlike all of the others, it came quickly into sight.
The sun was lower in the sky during the winter, making it more difficult for him to play the game. But it was black now, for sure. A car, not a truck.
"You got any 10 weight oil?" asked Tim Abbott, the second oldest man in the area, next to Old Man Foss. "Need it for my old Ford, for the winter, you know."
"Uh huh." Cox looked down the road. The car was traveling fast, in his opinion.
"Can't be caught with heavy oil on a cold morning."
Geezus, Cox thought, it's low to the ground.
"How about some 10w40?"
God, he must be doing a hundred.
"10w40?"
No hood ornament, but a black grill and a black front bumper. And then, he could tell it was slowing. No dipping of the front end. Just the slowing. Cox went out the front door, in case the sleek black panther chose to dash past the Stop and Go.
The car came nearly to a stop and turned into Cox's. It was a 180 degree turn at about 10 mph, without leaning. It came up to the first pump, barely breathing. The tinted windows kept him from seeing inside. As the driver stepped out, Cox made his way to the back of car.
Could it be? Damn. It came up too fast to be an ordinary American sedan. Yes, there it is. On the black bumper, embedded with black letters: "Maurader." God oh mighty.
Cox thought, just sitting there, it looked like it was going 70. It was just like uncle Henry's car, the one he used as county sheriff, but his was a dark blue one. Henry's car had no words embedded in the bumper, but on the trunk were the words "Police Interceptor."
Cox collected his thoughts. The car at the pump was built for purpose. Designed to go zero to a hundred in seconds. Built to corner at high speed with no lean, no slide. It was built for purpose, but in spite of this, or because of it, it was made for beauty.
The driver walked around the store and stopped at the candy rack. He picked out a package of M&M's to go with a carton of milk.
"The M&M's are half off, today."
"Great."
"What year is your Marquis?"
"Two thousand and three."
"God, it looks new."
"Twenty three thousand miles on it."
"Had it long?"
"About a year. Got it from an old guy in Denver."
Cox, looked down at the counter and away from the driver. "Two things I've wanted to do in my life."
"What's that?"
"Bowl a three hundred game, and own a Maurader."
The driver smiled.
"What more could a guy want?"
The sedan started up, taking a deep breath through it's K&N air filter system, and exhaling through the two stainless steel exhaust pipes. The floor shift clicked back two notches, and the tires spun slowly in the gravel. When the back tires reached the pavement, they spun, leaving some of themselves behind. The exhaust pipes cleared their throats. A rush of air passed over the open sun roof and sucked up an empty pack of M&M's and then laid it back down on highway 56.
Cox examined a small bag of M&M's, looking for its expiration date. Too young for bifocals, the proprietor held it at arm's length. A film of dust covered the package suggesting that the date had passed. It had.
He sighed.
"Mrs. Trumbull."
The humming of the cooler at the back of the store competed with Cox's voice for Mrs. Trumbull's attention. The elderly woman was searching the dairy products for a pint of skim milk for her raisin bran and for her cat, whose increasing weight was causing Mrs.Trumbull an increasing concern.
"Mrs. Trumbull."
She backed out of the cooler, her woolen hat and scarf still in place and worn to protect her from the chill of a February morning. The garments also came in handy in her search for the skim milk.
"Yes?"
Cox had moved on to the chocolate-covered peanuts, seniors themselves, on the candy rack.
"I've got a sale on M&M's today."
"How much?" she asked.
"Half off."
"No thanks. You got any skim milk in pints?"
"No ma'am. When they build the wind farm, I'll have more business. I'll have more variety in the store. More turnover."
"I'll guess I'll take the quart. I'll tell Old Man Foss you got the sale on."
"Thanks." Cox nodded his head because he knew Old Man "Foss", Bill Foster, would be in at 2:45, and would take the deal on the M&M's because he won't look at the date, or, if he does, he won't be able to see it, or, if he can see it, he won't care what it says.
But, other than Foss and a few more regulars, Cox's candy sale was at the mercy of travelers who thought highway 56 east out of Springer, New Mexico, would provide a shortcut to Kansas City. Or, the good price would interest tourists who incorrectly thought the beautiful mountains and plateaus of northeastern New Mexico would continue east, at least to Kansas. Little would they suspect that points of interest along highway 56 would only be Cox, Mrs. Trumbull, William (Foss) Foster, about ten more older people of similar habits, Mrs. Smithson, the former librarian of the former library, and a hound dog named "Possum."
Cox is the youngest of the group, although it could be contested that Possum is younger. At one time, the store owner considered getting an associates in business at the community college in Trinidad, Colorado, but he doubted that his 1986 Chevy pickup would make it the two years, covering the round trip several times each week. Or, maybe he'd wait for the price of gas to go down, given that the pickup traveled every eleven miles on a gallon. Or, maybe the new wind farm rumored to be coming to this part of the state would bring business so he could hire another employee to free Cox up for his studies.
Mrs. Smithson, the former librarian, encouraged Cox to advance his education. She told him he'd learn about marketing and management and something called human resources and asset management. She did not mention inventory control because she saw that Cox had already reached his quota of new words. But Mrs. Smithson had nothing to fear. The seed was planted, and the idea would grow on Cox, as did the dust on the empty shelves of her former library.
Cox possessed good business sense, the expired M&M's notwithstanding. When the irrigation equipment and supplies business failed out on the highway, Cox bought the building and turned it into "Cox's Stop and Go," as it says on the business license hanging on the wall of the gas station that is always called "Cox's" by its customers. Next to the license was a certificate from Golden Lanes Bowling Alley showing he had bowled a 300 game, and next to that, a photo of a black Mercury Grand Marquis.
When he installed the three pumps in front of the building, he didn't squander good cement in the driveway surrounding the machines; a layer of gravel was sufficient for the traffic. And, to serve his curiosity, Cox placed the cash register in the front of the building so he could look out the windows east and west to see customers approaching and guess the nature of the traveler. Because his business was located on a rise in the road, he could see miles each way, and first notice the approaching motorist by the small speck they made on the horizon.
Old man Foss came in at 2:45. He bought four packages of M&M's and asked if gas was half off, too.
"Foss, you don't drive any more. You wouldn't buy any gas at 10 cents a gallon."
Foss handed the final penny of the transaction to Cox, happy that he finally found it at the bottom of his pocket, hidden beneath the nickels and dimes.
"I still have the old Buick. I could get it goin' again and drive to church if I had to."
Cox pitched the penny into the March of Dimes jar. "I'm not worried by that threat."
Foss looked offended. "I mow my yard with my gas-powered mower."
Cox smiled. "You got me on that, Foss. How many gallons you want?"
"Don't need any right now."
Cox handed the sack of M&M's over to Foss. "You got grass in your yard?"
"Depends what you call 'grass'."
"That's what I thought. You haven't had any grass for the last twenty years, have you."
"I ain't been countin'."
"I have. It's been twenty years."
"Maybe so." The gentleman harrumphed.
Foss headed out the store and stopped when he reached the edge of the highway. He looked slowly to the east, and then back to the west. One more glance east and he put his first foot onto the pavement. Then a glance west.
"Cox?" An older person's voice screeched into the convenience store phone. Cox knew it was Daisy Foster, Old Man Foss' wife. "Mrs. Foster, he just left."
"Is Foss at your store?"
"Yes Mrs. Foster. He just left. He's safely across the highway, heading home."
"He's coming home?"
"Yes, Daisy."
East down the highway in the direction of Dodge City, Cox noticed a small point on the horizon. He watched it to see if it grew larger. It did. Miles away, it would take a long time to discover the nature of the traveler. He formed his first guess: a pickup. He knew it would stop at his store. They all did.
It was blue.
Then, it was an older vehicle, a Chevy.
It was Butch Riddick's 1997 Chevrolet Silverado, extended cab.
Butch works for the corporate farmers who plant crops around the area. Crops that depend on the irrigation equipment that Butch maintains. He passes Cox's several times a day, this time with three strangers in the back seat. Cox pulled a 5-gallon gas container from the utility closet, guessing correctly the problem Butch's riders had met.
"We thought we could make it," said the strangers.
Cox filled the container with gas.
"Where you all coming from?"
"Dodge City."
"That's too far to make it on a tank. Unless you got one of them highbirds."
"Nah, it's a Ford Windstar, a minivan."
Butch loaded up the strangers and the gas, and pointed the blue Chevy back to where it came from. Cox watched it grow smaller, but let it go on its own to become a speck on the horizon.
There were other specks that day. Indeed, the next one appeared on the western horizon. It was black, maybe dark green. And, unlike all of the others, it came quickly into sight.
The sun was lower in the sky during the winter, making it more difficult for him to play the game. But it was black now, for sure. A car, not a truck.
"You got any 10 weight oil?" asked Tim Abbott, the second oldest man in the area, next to Old Man Foss. "Need it for my old Ford, for the winter, you know."
"Uh huh." Cox looked down the road. The car was traveling fast, in his opinion.
"Can't be caught with heavy oil on a cold morning."
Geezus, Cox thought, it's low to the ground.
"How about some 10w40?"
God, he must be doing a hundred.
"10w40?"
No hood ornament, but a black grill and a black front bumper. And then, he could tell it was slowing. No dipping of the front end. Just the slowing. Cox went out the front door, in case the sleek black panther chose to dash past the Stop and Go.
The car came nearly to a stop and turned into Cox's. It was a 180 degree turn at about 10 mph, without leaning. It came up to the first pump, barely breathing. The tinted windows kept him from seeing inside. As the driver stepped out, Cox made his way to the back of car.
Could it be? Damn. It came up too fast to be an ordinary American sedan. Yes, there it is. On the black bumper, embedded with black letters: "Maurader." God oh mighty.
Cox thought, just sitting there, it looked like it was going 70. It was just like uncle Henry's car, the one he used as county sheriff, but his was a dark blue one. Henry's car had no words embedded in the bumper, but on the trunk were the words "Police Interceptor."
Cox collected his thoughts. The car at the pump was built for purpose. Designed to go zero to a hundred in seconds. Built to corner at high speed with no lean, no slide. It was built for purpose, but in spite of this, or because of it, it was made for beauty.
The driver walked around the store and stopped at the candy rack. He picked out a package of M&M's to go with a carton of milk.
"The M&M's are half off, today."
"Great."
"What year is your Marquis?"
"Two thousand and three."
"God, it looks new."
"Twenty three thousand miles on it."
"Had it long?"
"About a year. Got it from an old guy in Denver."
Cox, looked down at the counter and away from the driver. "Two things I've wanted to do in my life."
"What's that?"
"Bowl a three hundred game, and own a Maurader."
The driver smiled.
"What more could a guy want?"
The sedan started up, taking a deep breath through it's K&N air filter system, and exhaling through the two stainless steel exhaust pipes. The floor shift clicked back two notches, and the tires spun slowly in the gravel. When the back tires reached the pavement, they spun, leaving some of themselves behind. The exhaust pipes cleared their throats. A rush of air passed over the open sun roof and sucked up an empty pack of M&M's and then laid it back down on highway 56.
