I Should Have Gone To Maypearl..

I must have been feeling overly confident and brave that day.

I was about to get schooled… by the Lone Star State.

I boldly drove into Texas and saw a sign.

I should have gone to Maypearl.

It was first up. It looked safe. Like pie, a tall glass of Texas sweet iced tea, and somebody's grandma calling you "baby" while already knowing everything about you and your entire family line. I slowed down, thought about it, and kept driving. And just like that, I made my first mistake.

Then Cut and Shoot. I turned in like I had something to prove. That was mistake number two. Nobody waved. Nobody smiled. One man looked at me like he had already seen the outcome, and I got the strong sense I was about to help him confirm it. I did not stop. I did not park. I did not even fully commit to being there. I slowed down just enough to acknowledge my mistake, then kept moving like eye contact was a legally binding agreement. And somewhere in that slow roll, I noticed something else: more than one person was wearing confidence on their hip like it belonged there. Holstered. Casual. Like that was just part of getting dressed. I had seen enough. Because here is the thing about Cut and Shoot — that name is not a suggestion. That is a sequence of events. And I had already made my decision. I was going to handle step one and get out before step two. I Cut before the Shoot.

After that, Kickapoo.

Kicka… poo.

Kick. A. Poo.

I paused. I decided I did not need that kind of experience in my life. I kept driving.

Then came Dime Box. I pulled into Buc-ee's for gas. That was the plan. Gas. Thirty minutes later, I walked out with brisket, fudge, a cast iron skillet, two shirts I do not remember choosing, a bag of jerky I do not remember deciding on, and a receipt long enough to qualify as literature.

I came in for gas.

I also picked up a $6.99 cowboy hat, hoping I'd blend in.

I did not.

Up ahead, Gnatsville.

No.

I did not stop. I did not slow down. And that is when the AC went out.

I rolled the windows down for relief, and BAM. A cloud of gnats hit me at highway speed like they had a lease and no intention of leaving. Some wedged between my teeth like they had assigned seating.

The AC gave me nothing but warm, committed air. Now I am blind, sweating, under attack, and the inside of this truck feels like a slow cooker set to regret.

That should have been enough. It was not even close.

That is when I saw Muleshoe. And at this point I am committed to bad decisions, so I pulled in. And let me tell you something — it is exactly what it sounds like. One mule, one shoe, and a level of determination that made me feel like I needed to apologize for my entire work ethic. That mule is out there giving it everything with half the equipment, like: I did not quit, why did you?

Right about the time I was having a small personal crisis in a parking lot, I heard somebody behind me say, "Look here, partner. You said it wrong. Care to try again." Very gruff. I froze. Because I had. I said Mules Hoe. Out loud. I briefly considered blaming my grade school phonics teacher, but that argument did not hold up in this environment. Everything got quiet in a way that did not feel healthy. One man slowly turned. Another set his drink down like we were transitioning into a different kind of conversation. Somewhere off to the side, I swear I heard a folding chair open.

And then it was explained to me.. firmly, respectfully, but with just enough edge to clarify this was not a safe learning environment: "It is Muleshoe. One mule. One shoe. That is it." Because Mules Hoe is a completely different situation. One that involves poor decisions, questionable loyalty, and at least one person saying, "That is not even my mule," while somebody backs a truck up real slow like they have done this before.

I nodded. Did not argue. Did not ask follow-up questions. Got back in the truck and left immediately.

At that point, a reasonable person would have turned around.

I kept driving.

Further on, Three Sisters. Now that is a real town, and I should have respected that. I slowed down just enough to confirm it was not a joke, and that is when I saw them. Three of them. On a porch. Rocking chairs moving in rhythm like they had nothing but time and full awareness of everything that passed through. They did not wave. They did not smile. They just looked at me — and then, like a poorly explained sci-fi movie, time stopped. They rummaged through my soul the way you go through an antique store attic: unlabeled boxes, questionable decisions, one drawer that stuck. When they finally forced it open, all three leaned in a little closer, then looked back at me like I had been a problem for a long time, then sent me on my way. I passed through that town like I had already been there too long. And I am fairly certain they kept watching after I left.

This is where I should have gone home.

I did not.

I was still soul-shaken from Three Sisters when I realized I had rolled into Gun Barrel City and parked. About the time I realized where I was, was about the time I saw someone, then everyone, slowly turning to eyeball what had just blown into their fiefdom. Me. Not fast. Not surprised. Just deliberate. I did not turn my head. I did not make eye contact. I put the truck in reverse like I had made a clerical error, and quietly corrected it.

And then, Bug Tussle.

I should have known better. I had already been warned by reality multiple times. But I pulled in anyway, and Texas introduced herself immediately: mosquitoes the size of blue jays and twice as feisty. I do not know what I fought. I do not know what bit me. I just know I was swinging, spinning, questioning my life choices, and losing to something that weighed less than a paperclip but had the confidence of a heavyweight champion. At one point I felt weightless in a way that was not uplifting.

I got back in the truck different. Scratched. Irritated. Humbled. Texas had issued me my first and only ass-whoopin courtesy of nature — no receipt, no return policy.

I sat there for a second. Engine running. Hands on the wheel. Dreaming of an ice cold Shiner Bock, and that is when I heard banjos. No river. No creek. Not even a puddle with ambition. Just banjos getting closer.

I put the truck in drive.

And finally, Point Blank.

I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I should have known better. I slowed down. That was my last mistake. A screen door slammed. A dog barked like it had a personal issue with me specifically. And from somewhere behind me, quiet and unhurried: "He slowed down."

I did not see who said it. I did not need to. Porches had people. Chairs had movement. And I got the distinct sense that if I stopped, I was going to become part of the conversation.

I did not stop. I did not wave. I did not exist.

I eased forward carefully, respectfully, like I had just remembered how to behave in public. And as I passed through, I caught one last thing in my rearview mirror: a man stepping into the dusty road, watching, ensuring I drove on out of town.

Point Blank was not telling me where I was.

It was telling me I had gone far enough.

I did not slow down again. Not there. Not anywhere.

For the first time all day, I was not curious. I was not confused. I was not even amused.

Message received.

I kept driving.

I wasn't stopping to read anything ever again.