Tracing Texas

“I don’t care if they’re selling shit sandwiches, we’re stopping at the next place with something to eat.”

It was a disgusting sentiment but I whole heartedly agreed. After pushing the rented Chrysler for a relentless precession of long hours across the endlessly broad back of Texas, we had reached the point at which almost anything seemed edible. Passing structures looked tomato red and corn yellow, the clouds formed little steaks and puffs of broccoli, and I hadn’t notice it before, but the whole interior of the car was the exact color of perfectly toasted bread. The entire landscape was turning into a multiple course meal while my stomach folded in on itself and the road across Texas just stretched on and laughed.

“As terrible as that sounds, I’m fine with it.” I looked out the window, gazing helplessly into the vast and astonishingly large flank of land separating us from our destination in Austin. There was nothing except open space and the thin stripe of concrete we were driving on slicing through it. “But there is nowhere to stop, and I don’t think there is for a while. Look around…”

I’d done this drive enough times to know just how long and desolate it could be. In the wholesale circuit, it was known as the marathon of the Southwest sales territory. What started as a fast paced bounce from California to New Mexico would slow along the long road from El Paso to Austin; a nine-hour drive that rolled torpidly over six hundred miles of lone star ground I should be done traversing. I had already paid my dues: drove the drive, closed the sale, lived from a suitcase, and sustained myself from a grease-stained paper bag tucked between my lap and a steering wheel. After my promotion last winter, I was supposed to be done with the road. Worst of all, this was the rookie route, the longest and hardest trip of any territory, ostensibly reserved for the newly hired and foolishly eager, not the ragged and road-worn. I moved the sun visor so I could see my reflection in the mirror and confirm I looked as deeply tired as I felt. I did. Beside me, Kyle leaned into the wheel as he drove, and I thought he looked tired also, but in an adventurous and satisfied way, which is completely different.

“There’s got to be something,” he said, sitting back and hanging his hand from the window, dipping his fingers into the eddying wind. “Haven’t you done this drive a hundred times or something? Where do you usually stop?”

“I’ve done it a few, yeah. But I usually split this drive into multiple days; eat in town before heading out. If we want that extra few days in Austin, we have to drive straight through. And I don’t know about you, but I could use a few days off.”

“Yeah, that sounds good but I’m starving. We’ve been driving all day. I’m sure we made good enough time. Anyway, I don’t care anymore. I’m about a minute away from biting into the dashboard. You notice how it’s the color of freshly toasted bread?”

The truth is, the whole trip was already a shit sandwich. I knew I would regret agreeing to it before I had even committed. It was a hail-marry to save a business already gone. A long shot at best. After the investors pulled out, the end was tangible. Maybe, if we could somehow sell every unit of clothing in our inventory, a truly inconceivable and unrealistic feat, it was possible we could somehow make it work. And even then it would take an act of divine intervention. So really, there was no good reason for me to be here. Yet here I was. Maybe it appealed to my ego; the chance to pull the whole thing out of water and be the hero. Maybe it was just my inability to give up and move on. Maybe buried in this whole mess, under the miles of road and emails, I knew that this would be my last chance to get out—and even though these trips stretch your body and patience paper thin—I had found a strange sort of peace out here, twisted into the pounding days and shifting nights. Or maybe not. I wasn’t exactly presented with a choice. Sometimes I guess you just have to eat the cards they deal you.

Impossibly hungry, I thought back to breakfast and felt all the miles since ripple through my abdomen. I pulled out my phone and looked at the map hoping for a nearby eatery. Nothing but a blue dot in a green eternity.

“We should have gotten something at that last gas station. I don’t see anything coming up at all. We can stop at whatever—”

“What is that?” Kyle unhesitatingly interrupted.

I followed his finger down the road and around a few bends, to a cluster of dots in the distance where a thin but pronounced tendril of smoke crept up into the sky. As we got closer the dots slowly took the shape of a small building with what looked like big fire pits behind it, and when we got really close, we could see it was an outdoor roadside barbeque.

“I thought you said there was nothing coming up on the map?”

I looked back at the phone. “There isn’t.”

We pulled off and parked in the fallow dust lining the road. Stepping from the car, I was immediately drenched in the rich smell of wood fire cooking. It poured out into the air, powerfully sweet and thick, filling every particle and inhalation with savory fullness. Neither of us spoke. I imagine it was because our mouths were salivating to such an extent, words would have turned to drool. Instead, we floated silently to the front of the building. It was narrow and tall; two stories of dilapidated wood paneling held together by sets of rusting nails. There were two large windows facing out, both were lined with sheets of wax paper and impenetrable to glimpse through. The whole thing was conspicuously ramshackle at best and didn’t really seem safe for occupants in any regard. Sure enough, when we tried the door, it was bolted shut from the outside, and a sign informed us that there was no trespassing allowed.

“What is this place?”

“I have no idea. But do you smell that? They’re definitely cooking something back there, and I’m going to get some. Come on let’s go around back.”

Following the building the same way we approached, we walked back into a dirt lot padded by three large barbeques built from empty forty-two-gallon steel drums—each one resting closed and billowing gray smoke spirals from the seams. Centered between the back of the building and the drums were lines of plastic tables covered in thick white paper that worked as disposable table cloths. We sat down at one of the tables and waited. There was no one else there.

“Is this definitely a restaurant? What if it is just someone’s family cook out or something?”

“I really hope it is a restaurant. If not, maybe they will feed us anyway. Southern hospitality, right?”

As I finished speaking, a man walked casually out from behind the far side of the building. What he was doing there, I have no idea. He walked slowly; a big man with blue jeans and a collared shirt that was rolled up to his elbows, stretched tightly over dense forearms, and covered in a white apron with all the right stains. Without any overtly obvious signs of acknowledging us, the chef moved past our table and positioned himself at the center grill. I turned to look at Kyle who wore an expression of confusion that mirrored my own.

“What do we do?”

“Let’s go over and talk to him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

I shifted my weight to stand but as I did, the chef was already walking towards us with a plate of food in each hand. I of course leaned back into the chair, content to let the affair play out as it would. The man reached the table and placed the plates down in front of us. Then he produced a plastic basket of chips and lay that down as well. Where the basket came from, I have no idea. The first plate was piled with ribs that dripped in a thick barbecue glaze, still bubbling from the heat of the fire. The second had two burgers with patties as thick as three of my fingers. Before I could react, and without saying a word, the chef turned to leave. When I told him we hadn’t ordered anything, he just kept on going. I looked back around at Kyle who was already half way into a rib, and I quickly followed his lead.