Me, The Mentor: Chapter 9

We dropped off the pack­age at the FedEx store, address­ing it to the FedEx loca­tion in Del Rio, with the assur­ance that it would be deliv­ered the next day.

As usu­al, our wait at the air­port for our flight was length­ened by the require­ments of secu­ri­ty check-ins, which always seem to be required for an unnec­es­sar­i­ly long time before one’s flight is sched­uled to leave.

Also as usu­al the load­ing process was a bun­gled mess.  The only pos­i­tive aspects of the sit­u­a­tion were that we were trav­el­ing busi­ness class once we reached Atlanta, which gave us a bit more room, and our Atlanta lay­over was only a lit­tle over an hour.

En route Wil and I went over the mis­sion plan almost con­tin­u­ous­ly, mak­ing adjust­ments while real­iz­ing that noth­ing in the plan was cer­tain and that fur­ther adjust­ments would inevitably be made on the spot once the oper­a­tion was underway. 

The in-flight meal was quite sump­tu­ous if you like peanuts and Coca-Cola.  Both of us eschewed hard liquor.  Maybe it was because we both pre­ferred wine or pos­si­bly because we just want­ed total­ly clear heads once we land­ed in San Antonio.

Arriving there and col­lect­ing our lug­gage, we head­ed to the Avis booth to secure the vehi­cle that L.T. had arranged for us.  It turned out to be a dark gray Ford Expedition, one of the large SUVs.  It would cer­tain­ly be help­ful in haul­ing any equip­ment we would have, includ­ing that which we would pick up at the Del Rio FedEx office.  It should also be ter­rain friend­ly and rel­a­tive­ly inconspicuous.

Our dri­ve from San Antonio to Del Rio was an unevent­ful cou­ple of hours through the dusty and large­ly bar­ren coun­try­side of south­ern Texas.

And it was hot! Leaving the rel­a­tive com­fort of Kentucky’s weath­er and emerg­ing into the Texas heat near­ing one hun­dred degrees was not a pleas­ant expe­ri­ence. I expect­ed that we would have to endure the same for our stay.

The GPS sys­tem in the vehi­cle guid­ed us unerr­ing­ly to the down­town Best Western where we checked in with­out any prob­lems — sep­a­rate rooms — and using our pre­pared cov­er sto­ry to explain why we were in town and would be stay­ing for a few days, not know­ing exact­ly when we would be leaving.

After set­tling into our respec­tive rooms, I called the local FedEx office and had them track the pack­age we had dropped off in Kentucky.  They informed me that it was expect­ed the next day and that I would be able to pick it up after eleven a.m.

Our total trip had tak­en most of the day, so I went next door to Willa’s room to sug­gest that we go out to find a place to eat.  Despite the seri­ous­ness of the work we would be doing in Del Rio, I have found that hotel food is noto­ri­ous­ly pathet­ic and that it’s much more fun to find some local eatery.

At the front desk, we inquired about good places that could be rec­om­mend­ed.  I informed the desk clerk that we would pre­fer some­thing oth­er than Mexican fare, as there would undoubt­ed­ly be a lot of those in a town so close to Mexico.  The clerk sug­gest­ed that we try Cripple Creek Steakhouse, a local spot known for its great steaks. Like near­ly every mid-sized town in America, Del Rio had its share of the usu­al chain restau­rants — KFC, Applebee’s, and a host of piz­za places.  But one can get that fare any­where, so it was off to Cripple Creek.

The restau­rant is locat­ed in a rather unique log build­ing that looked like it had been there for a cen­tu­ry, and the near­by park­ing lot indi­cat­ed that it was a pop­u­lar place, even in the mid­dle of the week.  Inside it was bright­ly lit and abus­tle with peo­ple hav­ing their evening meal and oth­ers enjoy­ing the bar.

We were for­tu­nate that there were still vacant tables avail­able and were shown to one as soon as the host­ess spot­ted our arrival.  It was a bit noisy, but the two of us enjoyed the live­li­ness of the place and the myr­i­ad of con­ver­sa­tions around us.  I have always enjoyed din­ing in local restau­rants because it gives me a chance to over­hear some of the con­cerns and issues that the locals are deal­ing with.  And one nev­er knows when a use­ful bit of infor­ma­tion might be gathered.

But the peo­ple we were here to deal with were prob­a­bly too dis­as­so­ci­at­ed from the local pop­u­lace to gen­er­ate much con­ver­sa­tion that would be use­ful to us, so we con­cen­trat­ed on enjoy­ing our meal before we had to get down to business.

Our wait­ress, Gloria, accord­ing to the small plas­tic name tag adorn­ing her light tan blouse, was a mid­dle-aged lady, slight­ly over­weight but not what one would call plump.  She had dark brown hair pulled back into a pony­tail.  Her lip­stick was, I thought, a bit too red for her.  It made her look old­er than I judged her to be.  However, she had a pleas­ant demeanor and seemed to actu­al­ly enjoy her work as she greet­ed us, “Hi, folks.  I’m Gloria, your wait­ress for tonight.  Can I get you some­thing to drink?”

I had been look­ing through the liquor menu dur­ing the few short min­utes before she had arrived, “A glass of Pinot Noir for me, please.  Willa, how about you?”

“That sounds fine,” she respond­ed, smiling.

“I’ll be right back,” said Gloria, turn­ing and head­ing to the bar area while Willa and I scanned the din­ner menu.

It was only a few min­utes before Gloria returned with two glass­es of wine, and we placed our din­ner orders.  I chose the ten-ounce New York strip sir­loin with added mush­rooms and a baked sweet pota­to with cin­na­mon but­ter.  Willa ordered Mesquite grilled Coho salmon with asparagus. 

We set­tled back to enjoy the wine and eaves­drop on the con­ver­sa­tions going on around us.