He said something about not being able to take me all the way there because it was too narrow to turn around. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and as soon as the fare hit his hand, he was pulling away. Great vote for the area. This was Barelas, the oldest part of Albuquerque, whatever the tourist literature said about Old Town. It lay right up against Highway 314, the traffic a constant hum in the background. Somewhere behind me was the distant clatter and squeal of slow-rolling stock cars going into the main railroad yards. I was looking down into what might be the poorest, most derelict street in town. Lighting didn’t seem to be a big priority. There was a shed on the left; peyote graffiti crawled up the walls like psychedelic snakes. Loud music came from one of the houses down the Calle. One block away, someone was slamming a door over and over again. A black cat slunk around the corner, turning bright eyes to look at me, as if to ask what the hell I thought I was doing here.
