This Red Rock | Louise Blaydon
2
This Red Rock
MAGDALENA, according to the guidebook I picked up from
the library last spring, is an incorporated village in Socorro
County, New Mexico: perennially mild, of considerable
historic interest, and set at an elevation of 6,548 feet. It
marks the trail"s end of the old Socorro Magdalena railroad,
neighbors the abandoned mining town of Kelly, and, with a
population of 1,200, is most definitely the kind of place
where everyone knows each other. It"s also—as, again, I
worked out from the guidebook—the closest town to my
Uncle Frank"s ranch, and, therefore, the place I was making
for. That was the plan, anyway.
Not, please note, that it was actually my plan. My plan,
if I"d had my way, would have been to hang out lazy and free
around San Diego all summer, no doubt eschewing the
library in favor of the attractions of the beach, the parks,
and my friends in cosmopolitan downtown. San Diego is an
awesome place to go to school, whoever you are, but when
you"re a guy who grew up as the lone homo in a small town
in Arizona, my God , but you appreciate it. I remember
driving out here with a few friends as a rising senior in high
school—we took a trip just before school started up,
checking out the colleges we were thinking about applying
to—and falling in love with the place the second we entered
the city limits. Where I come from, everything is red dirt and
dust. The idea of a city whose freeways were lined with
trees—well, they might as well have been paved with gold,
that"s all I"m saying. We scooted around town for a couple
This Red Rock | Louise Blaydon
3
hours in Jimmy Romero"s little convertible, I remember,
winding up, naturally, in the university district. I was half-
euphoric already, even before I caught sight of the shock-
haired waitress and the rainbow beaded band around her
wrist. After that, I was sold. The guys, of course, thought I
had a crush on the waitress; the waitress, on the other
hand, knew exactly what was going down, and winked at me
as we left. I guess you must see a lot of kids like I was then,
in those kooky little cafés downtown, wide-eyed and weirdly
liberated at their first glimpse of an actual, real-life, out
person. Guess she recognized the way I was gaping at her,
not like I wanted her, but like I kind of wanted to be her.
I wanted to be her all the way back to Arizona. Hell, I
wanted it all the way through senior year. The thought of
being free to be unashamed like that—to pierce one ear and
dye my hair and hang out in coffee bars in red chucks,
discoursing on philosophy—was what got me through my
SATs and my college applications, and the hell that was AP
French. When I drove back to San Diego in my own little car
a year after that first time, I felt like I"d won something
monumental and indescribable. I was gonna make friends I
didn"t have to lie to; I was gonna be there in the Pride
parade. I was gonna lie around in the park on sunny days,
talking to sailors and reading Nietzsche and looking
educated and beautiful. San Diego was where I was gonna be
me.
I don"t have to tell you it didn"t exactlypan out that way.
I mean, the dreams we dream about the big wide world never
do. But the things that were most important to me, the
essence of what I wanted, I got, and it really was San Diego
that let me do that. I"m myself, when I"m there, dressing the
This Red Rock | Louise Blaydon
4
way I feel comfortable, hanging out with guys I genuinely
like, whom my mother would, no doubt, despise. In San
Diego, I can stretch in the sun and say honestly, “Yes, this is
the real Alex Arzano.” I"ve never really felt that, anywhere
else I"ve been.
You probably understand, then, why the idea of being
shipped off to the wilds of New Mexico didn"t exactly fill me
with joy.
Thing is, the Southwest is in my blood. Much as I hate
to admit it when I"m sitting cross-legged in some beat
2
This Red Rock
MAGDALENA, according to the guidebook I picked up from
the library last spring, is an incorporated village in Socorro
County, New Mexico: perennially mild, of considerable
historic interest, and set at an elevation of 6,548 feet. It
marks the trail"s end of the old Socorro Magdalena railroad,
neighbors the abandoned mining town of Kelly, and, with a
population of 1,200, is most definitely the kind of place
where everyone knows each other. It"s also—as, again, I
worked out from the guidebook—the closest town to my
Uncle Frank"s ranch, and, therefore, the place I was making
for. That was the plan, anyway.
Not, please note, that it was actually my plan. My plan,
if I"d had my way, would have been to hang out lazy and free
around San Diego all summer, no doubt eschewing the
library in favor of the attractions of the beach, the parks,
and my friends in cosmopolitan downtown. San Diego is an
awesome place to go to school, whoever you are, but when
you"re a guy who grew up as the lone homo in a small town
in Arizona, my God , but you appreciate it. I remember
driving out here with a few friends as a rising senior in high
school—we took a trip just before school started up,
checking out the colleges we were thinking about applying
to—and falling in love with the place the second we entered
the city limits. Where I come from, everything is red dirt and
dust. The idea of a city whose freeways were lined with
trees—well, they might as well have been paved with gold,
that"s all I"m saying. We scooted around town for a couple
This Red Rock | Louise Blaydon
3
hours in Jimmy Romero"s little convertible, I remember,
winding up, naturally, in the university district. I was half-
euphoric already, even before I caught sight of the shock-
haired waitress and the rainbow beaded band around her
wrist. After that, I was sold. The guys, of course, thought I
had a crush on the waitress; the waitress, on the other
hand, knew exactly what was going down, and winked at me
as we left. I guess you must see a lot of kids like I was then,
in those kooky little cafés downtown, wide-eyed and weirdly
liberated at their first glimpse of an actual, real-life, out
person. Guess she recognized the way I was gaping at her,
not like I wanted her, but like I kind of wanted to be her.
I wanted to be her all the way back to Arizona. Hell, I
wanted it all the way through senior year. The thought of
being free to be unashamed like that—to pierce one ear and
dye my hair and hang out in coffee bars in red chucks,
discoursing on philosophy—was what got me through my
SATs and my college applications, and the hell that was AP
French. When I drove back to San Diego in my own little car
a year after that first time, I felt like I"d won something
monumental and indescribable. I was gonna make friends I
didn"t have to lie to; I was gonna be there in the Pride
parade. I was gonna lie around in the park on sunny days,
talking to sailors and reading Nietzsche and looking
educated and beautiful. San Diego was where I was gonna be
me.
I don"t have to tell you it didn"t exactlypan out that way.
I mean, the dreams we dream about the big wide world never
do. But the things that were most important to me, the
essence of what I wanted, I got, and it really was San Diego
that let me do that. I"m myself, when I"m there, dressing the
This Red Rock | Louise Blaydon
4
way I feel comfortable, hanging out with guys I genuinely
like, whom my mother would, no doubt, despise. In San
Diego, I can stretch in the sun and say honestly, “Yes, this is
the real Alex Arzano.” I"ve never really felt that, anywhere
else I"ve been.
You probably understand, then, why the idea of being
shipped off to the wilds of New Mexico didn"t exactly fill me
with joy.
Thing is, the Southwest is in my blood. Much as I hate
to admit it when I"m sitting cross-legged in some beat
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