ArcaMax

I'm sitting in a hotel in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I feel the rumbling of a low-grade cold that soaked through my house this week, sparing me until now through intense efforts of arching away from uncovered coughs, cheek kissing the husband, and washing my hands like I'm going into surgery after I deposit a pile of snotty tissues in the trash.

I'm optimistic. I'm armed with Mexican flu pills, but I also have uncomfortable shoes and an embarrassing number of indecisive outfit choices, which made me take another trip to the shed and grab the larger rolling bag. Let's be honest: I will likely wear my jeans and barefoot shoes most of the time anyway.

It's colder four hours north. A layer of snow covers the small circle patio table on the balcony, with a bird print marring its smoothness. We haven't had any snow stick beyond an hour or two this season. Instead of just eating the apple in my bag and flopping into bed, I tried to live a little. I knew it would be cold when I tore myself out of my hotel to walk a few streets to get food that wasn't $55 venison downstairs.

The downtown is both a tourist town and in the middle of a legislative session at the Capitol building, also within walking distance. It was only about 7:30 in the evening, but the streets were mostly empty and icy. The bartender later explained that the median age is 65.

It was a bar advertised as being decorated with lowrider memorabilia. Unfortunately, it was attached to another locationally high-end hotel, and the memorabilia was only shiny hub caps and a few arthouse photos of well-scrubbed and overly lit lowrider drivers in their cars that barely framed them. I had hoped to sit in a lowrider cut in half but had to sit at a bar instead. It was made of copper, and my arms smelled like a penny after a few minutes of perched debating the pizza menu.

I tried to read on my phone but was trying not to be pulled into a conversion three seats away. One lady had probably had a few glasses handed over this copper bar, or others, and was in deep in conversation about being an old soul with a man who looked like a member of ZZ Top.

She professed the lineages of her cousins, remembering when the barrio and the church dominated the town.

"But I'm Belgian as hell," she said, only she used a word that's a gearshift up from the word hell.

A man sat between the Belgian and ZZ, who continued to scroll on his phone until the Belgian started to point emphatically. It must have been his cue. He stood up and told ZZ that he and Belgian aimed to start making adult films. The bartender caught my eye: "Your pizza is almost ready."

ZZ decided to call out to divinity in response, with some gearshifting in that phrasing as well. The couple moved down the bar behind me, and ZZ called out to tell them to stay out of trouble. Belgian yelled back, "But not that much!"

As I ate half of the pizza, ZZ told the bartender four times how wild that interaction was and how he wished he were 40 years younger to keep up with her. He cast over to me, but I knew I couldn't keep up with that level of storytelling.

"You look depressed," he said. I told him I was just tired from driving. He pried more, and I told him I was heading to the Capitol to ask for help funding our library. He nodded.

"Literacy, love that stuff," he said. He did not say stuff.

I laughed and told him I love that stuff, too. He wished me luck, but I think some of that stuff was already floating around if the tasty pizza was any indication.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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