I worked in The Burque for one week last November. When I was here that last time, I splurged and purchased a fine silver and turquoise Pakistani necklace from a Swedish woman with an intense handshake who runs a new-age type crystal shoppe/bookstore. I wore the necklace to my next destination, Chicago, whereupon, the very next day, one of the platelet hinges snapped. Admittedly, this happened while I was dancing super-hard with a bunch of friends in front of a juke box at one of my favorite Chicago beer joints, Estelle’s. Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed, but also, kind of impressed with myself that I was able to break a hundred dollar necklace simply by some crazy booty-shakin’.

Yesterday, I was in Inga’s store again, this time purchasing a hard-to-find book. I re-introduce myself and mention that I purchased a necklace last fall - and that it broke two days later. Inga pauses, looks at me over the top of her bifocals with a gaze equally as intense as her soul-stroking handshake and says very evenly, “You know, dear, zat vhen someting like dis happens, it is because zat necklace has protected you from some-sing.”

“What?” I ask. I don’t really know what I was expecting her to do about the busted merchandise, but I truly wasn’t expecting her to tell me that the necklace saved me from some sort of attack - psychic or otherwise.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s true. Once, I was coming home across a darkened parking lot, and my necklace broke.” She shuddered. “I know it protected me from some-sing!” She smiles. “I can recommend someone to fix it . . . ”

For the record - I do have a tendency to believe these sorts of things, but that belief system certainly has limitations. The only thing that I can’t shake about her explanation is that . . . . OK, let’s pretend that she’s correct and that it did “save me” from some-sing. Why did it break whilst I was dancing, surrounded by friends? I have to hand the prize of proprietary excuses to my local crystal shoppe owner, Inga. I’ll be back to her store; it’s a good store. I just won’t buy any more jewelry there.

The phone rang at 7:30 AM.

“Uh, hello, Anna,” said the extreme country accent. “This is Bones. I’ll be there in ’bout 15 minutes.”

“Huh?” I muttered, half-asleep. “But you’re not supposed to be here til 8:00-ish!”

“Mah ETA is 7:43, ma’am.” And then the AAA tow driver hung up.

I heard Bones arrive. It wasn’t necessary that he call to announce himself. I could hear his radio blaring some kind of whiny country music throughout the entire hotel parking lot. Bones of Bones Towing was a young man in his early 20’s. His country accent was so thick, I noticed, because he barely moved his mouth when he spoke.

I explained that I didn’t necessarily need a tow, but he couldn’t find his jumper cables, which I thought was sort of odd. He proceeded to try to help me pop the clutch of my car by pushing it across the fairly level hotel parking lot instead of down the hill, which was not only completely ineffective, but also another oddity.

Then I hopped into the Bones Tow Truck and we were off. I’d given the address to AAA the night before, but I knew roughly where we were headed. And when he took a left to go toward downtown Albuquerque instead of a right to go toward the Firestone service station, again, I thought it was a bit odd. “Hey, man, it’s down the other way,” I said.

“Naw,” he replied. “I punched the address here in my GPS, we’re on the way.”

I decided to let it go. I’d get there eventually.

Albuquerque’s morning sky line is filled with hot air balloons. I’ve been wondering why, but haven’t had the chance to ask a local. “Hey, Bones, why all the hot air balloons in Albuquerque in the mornings? What’s that tradition all about?”

“I don’t know. I’m a tow truck driver, not a balloon driver.”

He drove quietly for a few moments, then out of nowhere, flipped a bitch in a church parking lot, exclaiming “Mah GPS fucked me over!,” and headed in the direction I wanted to go.

UPDATE: Here’s my driver and his GPS!