Elisabeth is a sweetheart.

Elisabeth works two jobs. One is at a Mexican restaurant in Dodge City, Kansas. She should be good there because Elisabeth is from Mexico. She also works at the Maytag Laundromat on 4th Avenue in Dodge City. She is 20 years old, is married to a nice man and has a one year old son. We talked idly as I was doing my laundry. I mentioned to her that I was walking across the country. She didn’t believe me. I showed her my arms, where the tan meets the pale white skin at the sleeveline. She became a little less skeptical. I showed her how my outer shirt surface was severely faded. Then I showed her the inner surface, as dark blue as the day I left Tybee Island almost three months ago. “Do you sweat a lot?” she asked, wondering because she knows construction workers whose sweat fades their shirts in a manner similar to mine. When I avowed that I did indeed sweat a lot, she finally realized that I was telling her the Gods honest truth. She asked me a lot of questions, not just to be polite but because she really wanted to know. Where do I live? Where do I sleep? Where am I going next? When I told her Colorado, she told me that she recently went to Denver, six hours away by car, for a soccer match between Mexico and New Zealand. I asked her who won, and she broke into a big smile as she told me that Mexico had triumphed 3-0.
I asked her about her little boy. I tried guessing his name. Tomas? Miguel? No, no. Alejandro? Its close to Alejandro, she said but it’s a name you’ve never heard before. Try me. Axel. Axel…? Isnt that a German name?
She told me that there is a beef packing plant in town called XL, and friends call her son XL. Elisabeth gets mockingly indignant at the thought that people thing her son is named after a beef plant. We laugh.
When its time to go, she gives me a brand new cloth laundry bag, with pull string, almost as big as a bed roll. “You cannot sleep in it though,” she jokes.
I ask if I can take her picture. “Am I gonna be on your website?” she wants to know, and I tell her maybe. Likely.
She makes me wait for her to take of her purple latex glove to shake hands goodbye when its time for me to go. I say its okay, I can shake her gloved hand. She will not hear of it. The glove peels off, she wipes her damp hand on her apron and we shake hands. We part, with best wishes for each other.
Elisabeth. What a sweetheart.
Buena Suerte.