By Angus Stump
At 5,000 feet, this flatlander’s sensory receptors are out of kilter. My ears are weird, and my hearing is spongy. The air here has no heft. It is thin and weightless, unlike the pancake-syrup air of my prairie home. The light is different somehow. Brighter, clearer, whiter. It is surprising and invigorating and disorienting. My kind of afternoon.
I have been on a train for thirteen hours and I am carrying books.
There is a man on a bench inside the station, reading. His relaxed attitude and a single backpack said he may have been waiting for a train, but maybe he was just sitting in the shade reading a book. I noticed him mostly by the difference between us. I’m twitchy. He was placid, easy, rolling slowly. He did not have a single fidget in his soul. I aspire to that.
I went over and asked, without any warm-up:
“What’s your fake name?”
I do this. I don’t want to know people’s real names. I am a traveling pseudonym evangelizing on behalf of fictional characters by giving away books with fake names. So I need your fake name, and I’ll fight you for it.
“Larry Williams,” he said without looking up.
That was fast. Most people think about it for a minute.
“Is that your real name?” I asked.
“Nope. Just made it up,” he said.
I’ve found three kinds of responses to this question. Some people freeze and cannot compute. It’s rare, but it happens. Some people start by suggesting a version of their real name, then settle into something else they like. That is the most common response.
And some people are like Larry Williams here. This guy gave me something that sounds like a regional sales manager in Tulsa, and he did it in less than a second.
That, my friends, is an A+ fake name. Larry truly understood the assignment.
He looked up, smiling, not impatient, but clearly interrupted during the good part of a good book.
I made my pitch, and I made it quick.
I told him I was giving away a book. I gave him Skeeter.
He received it happily. Smiled broadly, thanked me sincerely without spending many syllables. And he returned to his book. To the good part.
Things I learned from Uber drivers that took me first to my hotel, then to a long-awaited meal:
The Sandia Mountains are named after watermelons. There is a great breakfast place, which may or may not be near the corner of 12th and Montaño. Guinea has two seasons: wet and dry. Chicago has two seasons: winter and construction. That joke is hilarious if you are an Uber driver. And the United States of America is a crappy place to live these days if you’re from Guinea.
Duran’s Central Pharmacy has been on Central Avenue, on Route 66, since 1942. It is a pharmacy, a diner and a gift shop. It has been exactly itself for eighty years and seems inclined to stay that way.
I found a spot at the counter and asked the server what was good. “Everybody says the huevos rancheros are good, but …” as he squinched his face slightly and made the so-so gesture with his hand. I asked about the carne adovada, and his face unsquinched. “Prize-winning,” he said. “It’s amazing. Get it with red and green chile.”
He was mid-forties, working the space like a diner genie, three-wish minimum, no waiting. This was his joint, or near enough. He had what I’m always looking for: the right combination of smart and friendly and chatty and having maybe, at some point in his life, been dropped on his head. His fake name is Thrash, which he explained at some length.
I made my pitch. Sci-fi time travel romance heist buddy flick, sentient technology that will probably rule us all, and some pretty decent breakfast recipes. He was on board long before I ended my rap.
The book was Brenda. Inscription: Hi! I’m Brenda.
He looked at it. Said, “Brenda?”
I said, “Yeah, Brenda. Nobody liked her much. Kind of a piece of work, honestly. She’s your problem now.”
That set him off, laughing and hooting with full commitment. He raised one palm. “Dude, you’re awesome, I love that you’re doing this! I’m like, ‘The book is named Brenda?” and you’re just like, ‘Oh, forget Brenda.‘” He caught his breath. “Don’t worry, I’ll set her straight. She can do dishes.”
He wanted to know about the books I’ve been giving away. “Eh,” I said, “one book here, two books somewhere else, one at this cool pharmacy diner on Route 66.” He needed more. “It’s just like writing a return address on a dollar bill. It just goes somewhere and we see what happens.” He got that immediately.
He said, “In a year or two, I’ll pass her on. I’ll explain the whole thing.”
I shook his hand and thanked him. “Please make the story a little better every time you tell it.”
He grinned. “That’s what I do.”
