As promised, Dear Reader, I did some more snooping.
Parking across from the old Texaco fillin’ station on Jefferson behind H-E-B, near the footprint of the old Tortilla Factory restaurant where we used to eat chalupa compuestos — as did, current rumor had it, political consultant Karl Rove — I walked briskly across the street to avoid Kerrvillian drivers who are wholly unused to creatures crossing in front of them who have 50% of the foot capacity of deer, and who therefore are unlikely to reduce their speed concomitant with my handicap.
As I approached the building, it appeared closed. This would have been about 5:45.
I didn’t grow up visiting people on their front porch unannounced, or bringing over a peach cobbler after church for Sunday dinner or, frankly, saying much at all to people on the street, so I didn’t know whether I was treading on private property that would be guarded with a weapon that had a barrel or fangs, or on the contrary whether I’d be greeted by some kindly gentleman in greasy overalls, wiping his hands on a rag and twanging out, “Howdy! How can I help you?!”
I had prepared in either case — except if it was a dog; then I’d run — to say, “Hi! I’m new to town but my wife is from Kerrville–I always get that out first!…” yada yada yada…some such drivel to make myself more palatable. I mainly was going to tell Said Kindly Greasy Gentleman that I was new to town and had driven by a few times and admired this building.
But no one was there.
Inside were two rows of shiny chrome-augmented motorcycles, maybe ten in each row. Motor oil cans and other tin containers from the early to mid-20th century (that sounds so old!) filled the window behind very clean glass.
The truck was a Chevy. Not a Ford. But neither was it a Hyundai.
And it appeared that every detail inside and out was curated, even manicured, right down to the 3-seater vinyl couch with the chrome arm rests that was behind the Chevy, ostensibly for old men to sit in, smoke cigarettes, and talk about the weather.