If you remember only one thing from this story, remember this: there aren't any liquor stores in Brownfield, Texas. But there is a big, pot belly sheriff. You know, the kind with the mirrored sunglasses, a piece of straw dangling from between his lips and a lonely, helpless button just about ready to pop right off his shirt. And somewhere between Main Street and U.S. 385 in Brownfield, Texas, there is a stop light. This is where our story begins.
One Jason Darrah. One Cory Cramer. One 1999 Dodge Stratus. And one road trip. We decided to head south out of Lubbock, Texas in search of, you guessed it...aliens.
We were heading across the desert to Roswell, New Mexico to visit the "International UFO Museum and Research Center" and settle the mystery once and for all. A few minutes outside of Brownfield, Cory, always the thinker, suggested that we stop off and purchase a few beers to wet our whistles for the long, sandy drive across the desert. I couldn't argue with logic like that, so we agreed to find a store to purchase supplies for our trek.
Now I'm sure the people of Brownfield are nice folks and I don't want to offend, but the town could use a good scrubbing. There's a good reason it's called Brownfield. Anyway, cruising through town we were on the lookout for a convenience store that would meet our thirsty needs.
Along with a convenience store, we were also looking out for our turn - a major intersection that would take us to Roswell. Well, priorities being priorities, I was watching for the convenience store much better than I was the turn - and the stoplight. We whizzed right through a red light and right by the county sheriff - who was sitting at the same light. Oops.
Immediately, we were getting pulled over. Fresh meat, with Iowa plates, no less. I pulled over into a church parking lot, Cory laughing at me the whole time. As the sheriff approached, I reached into the glove box and pulled out the usual documents - registration, insurance card and my license - in preparation for the grilling I was sure to receive.
The electric window made the usual buzz as it went down...There, staring at me through his mirrored sunglasses stood a big ol' Texas sheriff. He was everything you're thinking - big pot belly, a ten-gallon felt cowboy hat (with star) and a tooth-pick between his teeth. There, towards the middle of his pot belly, about half-way down his faded khaki uniform was a button hanging on for dear life. Stretched to the limit, it was one more gas station burrito away from flying off and hurting someone.
"May I see your license?" he asked. Instinctively, I handed him the wad containing the licence, registration and proof of insurance. He opened the insurance card and studied it for a minute. You could cut the tension with a knife. "What's this?" he asked, somewhat confused. "It's my proof of insurance, sir." I replied. "OH! Yeah...Well, I guess it is."
He flipped to my license..."Iowa!?...Iowa?" He looked away from the license and down towards me..."Whatchuu boys doing in TEXAS!?" "Uhh, well...I'm moving to Lubbock...blah, blah...sir," I responded - again with the utmost respect."Oh. Well..."
He than proceeded into the typical lecture you might expect to receive from a sheriff who just caught a criminal red handed. After he concluded, he pointed us to the road to Roswell and wished us the best of luck. I thanked him for the help and not giving me a ticket, put it in drive and continued on.
Cory was still laughing. "That was just like that Little Feat song!" he laughed. I rolled my eyes.
Now, you may think this is the end of the story. But it's not. After all, we were still thirsty.
A couple blocks away was a Phillips 66. New and shiny, it was just what we were looking for. Cory and I pulled in and popped out of the car. We walked in and went straight for the usual corner - that end of the convenience store where they always keep the brew. Straight by the Coke, the Pepsi, the Mountain Dew...didn't even slow down for the milk, the water or the Gatorade. All of a sudden there we were - at the freezer looking at a wall of ice. Huh? That's weird. We looked around and scanned the store - there wasn't any beer. How was this possible?
Confused, we walked up to the counter to ask the clerk. "Where can a guy get a 12-pack of beer in this town?" we asked. The clerk looked as though he'd heard this question before. He grinned a sly smirk. "Uh, there is no beer. We're a dry county."
What the hell is a dry county? Is this some kind of desert joke? Well, it's not. There is no beer in Brownfield, Texas - that's the dirty little secret they don't put in their Chamber of Commerce and tourism brochures.
Cory and I looked at each other - stunned. Speechless. How could this be? As we were walking out, the clerk hollered, "the closest place to get beer is New Mexico." Boy, that was a kick in the teeth. New Mexico was probably 40 miles away.
Dejected, we loaded into the Stratus and began heading west - towards the New Mexico border. The wind was harsh, the dunes were deep - and at first it looked like a mirage. But there it was. Literally 10 feet across the Texas/New Mexico border was a liquor store. Not so coincidentally, the parking lot was full of cars from Texas. We were saved. The quest for aliens could now continue.
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