Photos by Lee Vanderpool

Water

I stand up and head south towards the Pizza Station. Away from the white linen hung on long lines of table running down the center of town. I walk fast, passing a white-haired woman in a loose polo shirt shaking a Splenda packet into her ice tea. Her friends lean in to her, thrusting red filled cups to toast the afternoon.

Stepping up from the street to sidewalk, I peek through the bookstore’s windows but see noone using their email-checking laptops. Marfa Book Co.‘s wireless saved me last night, so I enjoy seeing it do well. A Le Corbusier glassed man steps out of the store, and I swerve around her making eye-contact with a black-haired women sipping at her Tecate.

When I step through the open door at Pizza Station, I smell tomatoes, baked onions, and garlic. A high school student in purple baseball hat stands at the screened kitchen’s order counter.

“Close the door. C’mon now, the flies.” says a seated woman. “Where do these people come from.”

I turn, shut the large door, order two slices, get change for a five and walk back outside to wait. I sit on stairs next to the door, and read John Chamberlain‘s interview in the Chinati Foundation‘s newsletter. I kill the first tomato topped slice in a few bites. I carry the second with me back through town.

A sixteen year old pops a nice ollie as I cross the street. A friend bandana-whips his side, and they roll each other, brawling just a little bit. I get back to the bbq and the people have piled up into winding lines stretching almost to the railroad tracks that bisect the city. Chamberlain’s artist talk must have let out early.

I see Terra and Lee still sitting in folded chairs. The lines are too long and they are charging for drinks, so we make our way back to the pizza place.

This time I notice a plastic pickle jar turned donation box with a handwritten note taped to it. Send a kid to a law conference in Washington D.C.

We order and sit for a second outside. A tall man with short hair and a silver chain busks our table. He grabs white paper plates with half eaten olive covered slices.

“Sorry, I haven’t been out here in a while. Haven’t had a chance to get to these tables. The restaurants a block down just lost water. So, we are trying to figure out what to do with that,” he says. “So many people using the bathrooms…we don’t really have the infrastructure, y’know.” An hour later they lose water for 30 minutes.

And Corkscrews

The dollar store is closed. No good. Lee and Terra pile in and we drive across the street to a grocery store. I elect to watch the car and make sure that the cd doesn’t skip, while they go in to buy a corkscrew. 10 minutes later they return without a crumply plastic bag.

“They are all out. Marfa is sold out of corkscrews.”