Walking Lubbock

Whenever Curtis and I meet we go out for a long ramble. It’s inevitable. Today he wants to show me around downtown Lubbock. It’s early fall and unseasonably cool; it has even rained a little this morning. We wear lights pants, t-shirts, sneakers, both have on backpacks filled with books and extra gear. It’s only a few suburban blocks to the Texas Tech campus. A trio of barky dogs follows along a fence, tails wagging, then waits with us until we cross the eight-lane boulevard; we side-step the SUVs and the giant puddles caused by flash flooding. I can’t help noticing that the women walking to and from class wear their t-shirts especially long, enough to cover their shorts. Curtis tells me this is done to neutralize their sexuality, that it works like a uniform. I don’t entirely agree. At least for me, the hidden shorts and the exposed legs look like a guy’s fantasy of a woman the morning after, naked except for his shirt. Maybe it’s the baseball cap and the running shoes that bring the uniform back from the fantasy realm. Soon we pass out of the walking paths and student buildings and parking lots and move into a new kind of grid. Downtown Lubbock feels bombed out, abandoned. We joke about it being like an episode of the Walking Dead and wonder about the real town down in Georgia that they film the show in. What would it be like growing up in that town? Down one block we turn there are two Latino men strolling down the middle of the street. They are dressed sharply and give us a polite nod as they pass. There are other men sprawled out in a rough semi-circle around a homeless shelter, chatting and chilling. We are the only white boys around with backpacks and water bottles, that’s for sure. Anther turn and we’re heading through campus housing. Our talk has turned to Curtis’ recent sabbatical and the months he and his wife spent in Argentina. I am jealous of their adventurousness and freedom, their life on the road. It takes us a moment to realize that we are walking too close behind a woman. I get Curtis to slow his pace, allowing her the space to get to her car without the potential menace of our presence. A half hour later, and we’re crossing back over the boulevard jammed with cars that don’t make room for two guys on foot. Somebody honks. The puddles have evaporated. The dry heat rises up off the ground in an invisible waft.