A Man, His Microwaved Hamburger, and His Story

He had a mouthful of gas station hamburger when he stepped out of his dust covered pickup.

“WATRUPOWEFCCNGWITTATSOAR”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What’re you powering with that solar panel of yours?”

I proceeded to tell him that it powers a second battery, then powers our fridge, charges our gadgets, and how we’ve been on the road for two weeks.

He then proceeded to talk to me how he lived on top of a nearby mesa in a very small tightly knit community. How he built his 4,000 sq/ft home by hand. How he once made good money for years installing power lines up and down the area. How that money is all gone once all the power lines were put up. How he plans to build, and install, a solar farm for his community. How he hopes one day it would make enough excess power to sell back to the grid.

“But you know, that’s not going to happen. They won’t let. It’s what happens when you live all the way out in Navajo country!”

He held what was left of his hamburger down his side. Tears welling up in his eyes. Defeated.

“...it’s what happens in this country when you’re brown.”

I mustered a failed attempt to make him feel better.

“Well, at least it’s a good day whenever you’re not six feet under!”

He let out a laugh and wiped his tears.

“But you can also have good days when you’re six feet under! No one can bother you! Thanks for listening to my story —our story.”

He pat me on the back, chucked down the rest of his now cold hamburger, and wished us a wonderful rest of our trip.

I stood there, in that dusty, and hot gas station, speechless on what transpired in those fleeting moments.

So here I am, telling his story so it can be heard.

—Linhbergh