Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P. 3 of 3)

One would be mistaken to describe the effects of this plant as something akin to grass or even mescaline. It is like you are stamped wholly in this illusion that we term reality, where glimpses of another reality pops-in on occasion, revealing an alternative. Everything inwardly and outwardly feels normal, as sober as the morning. Then, from no-where, something odd appears that doesn't fit at all in one's “normal” perceptions.

We were traveling east on Interstate 40, otherwise known as Route 66 towards the Texas panhandle to the college town of Amarillo. In the summer 0f 1974, I believe there was a single gas station the entire 100-mile trek. You would look out the passenger window to the south or the other window to the north and see nothing but stretches of endless sand.

In the beginning, we traveled in silence, when out of no-where. Greg yelled:

“What?”

“I didn't say anything, man.”

“Yes you did, man, I can hear you speak!”

“I swear, Greg, I didn't say a word.” I said.

We would travel for another thirty miles or so, when out of the blue:

“WHAT.” Greg would yell.

“I didn't say anything!” I said.

“Yes you did. You said that I was driving too slow and needed to gun it a little harder. You said there were no cops around.”

“That's weird,” I said. “I know I thought that, but I know I didn't say it out loud.”

“You also said you wanted to find Denny's restaurant when we get into town. You said you wanted to eat at least 2 cheeseburgers...”

Greg was absolutely correct. That's exactly what I was 'thinking,' but I know I'd never said any of those things out loud. Was this guy reading my mind or what?

Right up ahead sat a figure in the distance. As we traveled closer,  an old man was wearing a sombrero, sitting on an old leather suitcase, with his thumb in the air.

“Do you see that hitchhiker Greg? Are you going to pick him up?”

“No fucking way, man!”

When we reached the strange hitchhiker, Greg swerved the car hard to the left to, I guess, put as much distance as possible between the old man and the car. I looked back, and the hitchhiker was now standing and waving at us with a friendly smile.

Dusk had now turned to blackness. There were no lampposts along the thoroughfare at the time, so all that could be seen was what the headlights permitted. No more than 10 miles further along, sat the old man again, wearing his big hat and sitting on his suitcase in the short distance. This time Greg didn't swerve the car but punched the accelerator, and we zoomed past our persistent hitchhiker.

We didn't say another word to each other until we turned off the freeway on the ramp leading us to the city.

Along the main street of gas stations and various stores, in the distance, sat Denny's restaurant. We pulled into the parking lot, and Greg killed the engine, and we sat there in silence, for it felt like over five minutes. “Okay, man. Let's eat.” Greg said.

After a month of ham and cheese sandwiches and rank TV dinners, sit down in a restaurant and eat real food felt like a brand new experience.

“ Were you screwing with me back there? I mean, you weren't saying anything to me?” He asked.

“No, man, I know when I talk or not, but I was 'thinking' those things you thought you heard I was saying.” I said.

“You mean you think I was reading your mind?” he asked.

Greg then looked out the window of the restaurant and turned a mild form of green. I followed his line of sight to see an old man sitting across the street, sitting on a suitcase, staring at us.

“Well, I'll be damned,” I said.

Greg grew panicked and said. “That's it. I wanna go back to New Mexico. This is getting way too weird, man.”

No, let's just find a rock club somewhere, listen to some music, and have a few 'real' drinks. Screw that old man. He won't follow us into any club.” I said.

Greg had a change of heart, whether from a full stomach of real food or putting aside the situation's strangeness, we paid the bill and headed out downtown. It was not long until we hit a part of town that consisted of mainly strip clubs and pool halls. Finally, we came to a place that had a long line in front of it, and the marque in front had the name of a rock band that currently escapes me. We joined the line and eventually entered the place.

After more than a month of living a routine existence of a Trappist monk, sleep, work in the fields, sleep, swim, work and sleep, day after day, can do a number on your head. Anything outside this strict and narrow routine becomes out of the ordinary. However, we had ventured out with not only escaping a monk's existence but with the enhanced variable of the local plant life running through our brains.

I made my way to the crowded bar and ordered two more G and T's. When I returned, a pretty blond girl was sitting next to Greg, chatting with him up. I remember Greg continued to have a look of shock and loss on his face. We listened to the band for a set, playing the Top 40 covers of the day. I was starting to enjoy myself, The set had ended, and I retrieved more drinks from the bar. Now that the music was less loud, a proper conversation could take place.

In an unusual moment of silence, the pretty blonde peered at the both of us and said. “I want to tell you before we get too friendly, but I'm known as the local white witch in town. And I know you have come across Mexcalito in your travels here to Amarillo.”

In that instant, Greg dropped his fresh drink on the floor and said to me, “That's it, we're leaving!”

At that instant, I wanted to ask the pretty girl how she knew, and who really was “Mexcalito.” But Greg wasn't having any of it. He grabbed my sleeve, and we scrabbled out of the bar in seconds. Back in the car and zooming back west on Route 66, we didn't say a word the entire way back to the hotel.

We never discussed the old man's incident or the self-proclaimed white witch in the rock club during the remaining two months of our working in Tucumcari. Greg was a pragmatist, a man who liked his steak medium rare and potatoes mashed to his liking. Anything that extended beyond this perception of “reality” was simply not discussed nor seriously considered.

It was a year later at college, that I sat on the bed of a fellow actor (we were in the same production) after a few beers, that she turned to me in all seriousness, and asked: “You've seen stuff, paranormal stuff, that others have never seen. I'm right, right?”

I turned to her and said,

“I'd rather not talk about it. And really, you don't want to know.”