Just past the outskirts of Espanola, I caught a glimpse of a pair of boots, sticking out of a culvert that went under the road. 

I was headed north on 68, running an errand for my boss, Big Jim, owner of Camino Real Contracting. I went on my way for a mile or two and then said to myself, naw, lemme check this out. It was cloudy over the Sangre de Cristos, and a flash flood sweeping down that arroyo could wash a body all the way to the Rio. So I doubled back and pulled off the road. Sure enough, the boots attached to some old coot, sleeping it off in the shade of the concrete pipe.

I kicked the nearer boot several times, harder and harder, until he stirred. I said, “Yo! You wanna ride home?”

He was non committal about the offer, so I said, “C’mon, let's get in the truck.” He finally stood up, and stumbled up the bank to the idling truck. He climbed in, whiskey breath, dusty boots and jeans, sweaty shirt, and blue bandana. “Where do you live, my friend?” I asked.

He replied, sing-song, “The high-way is my home.”

“C’mon, man, which way do we go?” He just pointed north.

So I continued rolling up 68, past Velarde, veering east, almost to goddam Pilar, when he mumbled, “The high-way is my home.”

“Please, just give me some direction.” He pointed left. I took the turn onto a sunbleached, crumbling stretch of asphalt that led due north. We meandered along the gorge, to this rusty iron bridge over the Rio. After several more miles, we got to a decent state road that went west, and continued until we finally hit the four lane heading south. Black Mesa loomed to the east. When we reached the Chama, he recited his mantra, again pointing left. That took us through San Juan Pueblo, and back to 68.

“The high-way is my home”, he sang again, and I took one more left. When we reached the culvert where I found him, he found his speech and said, “That’s my house.”

Fifty yards off the road, hard along the arroyo, it was one of those little ramblers, frame with fake adobe finish, that the feds build for the Pueblos.

I pulled out my wallet and found a five and three ones. I pulled out the ones and stuck it in his shirt pocket, and let him out. I hollered, “Good luck, High-wayman,” as he got out. 

I arrived at Big Jim’s shop about an hour and a half late. He was kind of sore. But when I explained why I was late, Big Jim asked, “Was he wearing a black and red checkered shirt, and a blue bandana?”

“Yep.”

“Well I’ll be dammed. That’s the same guy who stopped me at the Post Office yesterday morning. I gave him a lift to his house. It was about 10AM and he was already drunk as a skunk. Well, don’t just stand there, let’s get this truck unloaded.”