近距离内射合集

In the stretch between Clines Corners and west Albuquerque, Route 66 is something of a shapeshifter 鈥� straddling the rural and urban, traversing mountain and desert.

It starts as Interstate 40 crossing scrubby landscapes dotted with crumbling buildings and vacant billboards before making its way through the East Mountains and Albuquerque.

The road cuts through sparse towns like Moriarty 鈥� where big-box fireworks stores stick out like sore thumbs 鈥� and the forested properties of Tijeras before becoming Central Avenue, the city鈥檚 main drag, where lowriders cruise by the historic KiMo Theatre and the parched Rio Grande winds below.

Views of the city include aged but ever-bustling neighborhoods like Nob Hill and the blighted portions of East Central, where some of the country鈥檚 most pressing social issues are on full display: rampant drug use, unchecked mental health crises and rising homelessness.

Even as the places and spaces that made Route 66 a landmark fade, the characters remain along this once-roaring thoroughfare.

Sal

There were once 100 or so Whiting Brothers gas stations in America. Now one remains 鈥� on the roadside in Moriarty 鈥� the building pristine but its pumps long dormant.

鈥淭his is the last one, my man,鈥� owner Sal Lucero said gleefully, his head tucked under the hood of an SUV as temperatures hovered around 100 late last month.

In a smudged tank top with a spotless Interstate Batteries ball cap over his wispy hair, the 88-year-old spoke with an 鈥渙h, my God鈥� enthusiasm of someone a tenth his age. Wiry and tanned, with biceps that bulged above his elbows as he lifted a new battery from a rack in the shop, he has forever known the meaning of hard work.

Waving away help, Lucero said, 鈥淚 used to install a battery in five, 10 minutes. Now it took me an hour.鈥� A photo above the antique cash register showed a season of life come and gone: Lucero and his wife, Inez, beaming in front of the station.

Much has changed since he started working there in 1969, when they sold 100,000 gallons of gas a month at 33 cents. He bought the business in 1985 and raised a family in a house out back where a hand-painted sign above the door still says 鈥淭he Luceros.鈥� 

鈥淭his was the main route; I could never close,鈥� he said, with 鈥渟nowbirds鈥� from New York and Canada headed to Arizona and California, 鈥渨here money used to grow on trees.鈥�

Most of those travelers are gone now.

Interstate 40 came through with its corporate stations and truck stops, slowly making Route 66 obsolete. One by one Lucero鈥檚 children grew and moved away, and Inez died 15 years ago. Lucero still offers oil and battery changes, but most income comes from film studios wanting to use it for a bygone era, in TV shows like 鈥淧oker Face鈥� and 鈥淩ansom Canyon.鈥�

Lucero said the route still brings visitors for the same reason: a view into the past.

鈥淕ermany, France, England, all over,鈥� he said. 鈥淭hey like coming here and looking over the station because it鈥檚 still standing up and I keep it clean. I don't like a dirty place. I don't go for that.鈥�

He said when he鈥檚 gone, his children will probably sell it off.

鈥淭he place don鈥檛 make no money,鈥� he said. But that鈥檚 not why he鈥檚 stayed.

For Lucero, the station is like a family member. It鈥檚 brick and signage no different than the dimples in a familiar face. He can picture his children playing in the front lot. He can hear the roar of trucks and station wagons loaded with families speeding by.

鈥淚 see them coming and going 鈥� day and night,鈥� he said. 鈥淲e was busy, busy, busy.鈥�

Cindy

A skip down the road is another relic of Route 66 lore. A roto-sphere, a spiky, light-up, spinning globe that hangs quietly above Country Friends Antiques.

Thirty feet below, Cindy Arnett sits in a backroom amid printed shot glasses, glass pipes and local crafts. Her hound dog puppy, Sarge, plays quietly in a cage beside her.

Her short stature is bolstered by a broad smile and mischievous laugh. She calls herself an 鈥渙utsider,鈥� having been raised in Albuquerque, and complains the local politics 鈥渁re terrible.鈥� She appears to revel in making a splash.

However, Arnett said being along the Mother Road 鈥渄on鈥檛 make any difference to me and my business, and it never has.鈥� She added, 鈥淚 do excellent here.鈥�

The building, with its faded mural and name 鈥淓l Comedor鈥� painted atop, brings in travelers looking for a taste of history. Built by former Santa Fe County Commissioner Mike Anaya in the 1940s, the one-time cafe was the Democratic meeting place.

鈥淓veryone here, when I first opened, walked in (and said), 鈥業 used to work here. I used to be a waitress here. I used to wash dishes for Mr. Anaya. I used to鈥︹�� 鈥� to this very day they walk in and say that,鈥� Arnett said. 鈥淏ecause he was here for years and years and years and years.鈥�

The party held conventions in the big buffet room in the back, where dozens of photos of famous people and politicians adorn the wall. She said Bill Clinton announced his presidential campaign in a back room.

鈥淭his was rocking and rolling back in the day,鈥� Arnett said.

Arnett, who is in her early 70s, has 200 acres in the Manzanos where she rescues donkeys and mules. Ten years ago a wrong turn led her to the shuttered building and, on a whim, she made it into a marketplace.

鈥淚've been single since 1999 and I have no children 鈥� I've never been pegged down like this,鈥� Arnett said. She said she planned to buy the building from Anaya, who she called 鈥渕y best buddy鈥� and lamented that he had fallen ill.

鈥淗e told me that I kept him alive, and I said, 鈥榃hy?鈥� And he goes, 鈥榊ou make my blood boil all the time when you come up with these ideas.鈥� I said, 鈥榃ell, thank you, Mike,鈥欌�� Arnett said. Those ideas include having live music and a taco truck out in the parking lot, which is partially made up of the original two-lane Route 66.

Arnett points to the roto-sphere above the lot. There were once five from Chicago to Los Angeles but 鈥渢his is the last one standing.鈥�

Arnett said it still spins and lights up with the flip of a switch but is expensive to run. More so, it鈥檚 impossible to fix, as the man who repaired them died of COVID.

鈥淚 thought if something happens to it, you'll never get it fixed,鈥� she said.

One day she will turn it on again.

But, then Arnett waffled, 鈥淚 don't know, maybe.鈥�

Dorothy and Larry

When the Rainoseks purchased a small restaurant space on Route 66 in 1971, the Texas couple knew nothing of New Mexican food. Amid a bustling dining room, Dorothy admitted, "We didn鈥檛 know what green chile was.鈥�

The initial menu of The Frontier 鈥� which Larry wanted to name Burger Barn but was 鈥渙verruled鈥� 鈥� had breakfast, burgers and Tex-Mex. One of the employees, who went on to work for the couple for 54 years, introduced them to both chiles, enchiladas and huevos rancheros.

鈥淲e thought, 'Oh, well, I guess if that's what New Mexicans like, we ought to put it in,鈥欌�� Dorothy said.

She said Route 66, or Central Avenue, was quieter back then 鈥� a time when a homeless man stomping a bag of chips he couldn鈥檛 open was a notable incident. Larry said anti-war demonstrations were held at Yale Park, now the site of the University of New Mexico bookstore, 鈥渨here the marijuana people would hang out.鈥� 

鈥淭he hippies,鈥� Dorothy chimed in, with an eye roll. 鈥淭hey'd spend the night there and the city would start turning the sprinklers on at four or five in the morning, so they kind of quit staying there.鈥�

In the 50 years since, those measures have been replaced with encampment sweeps shuffling the unhoused off sidewalks along Route 66, particularly along East Central where open-air drug use and mental health struggles are commonplace.

Larry said the drugs and unhoused are intertwined, lamenting, "How can the city try to police that? I don't know, and they don't seem to know either.鈥� 

Dorothy added, 鈥淚t鈥檚 so sad to drive down Central 鈥� these boarded-up buildings that have all the fences around them and then people sleeping on the sidewalk and having these big carts of their earthly possessions.鈥�

Dorothy and Larry have watched their neighbors evaporate: Okie Joe鈥檚, a biker hangout, Manny鈥檚 and, more recently, Loyola鈥檚 鈥� where the couple ate when they first opened.

 鈥淭here鈥檚 not that many that survived,鈥� Larry said, noting the McDonald鈥檚 is still down the street on Yale. Dorothy said 鈥淲e have weathered a lot.鈥�

In the initial years, they served up to 300 hundred people a day and now serve several thousand in a 鈥渂ig weekend.鈥� The couple wanted to be a university hangout but ended up being a generational hangout for everyone.

鈥淥ne of the comments that people have made when they've been gone for 10 or 20 years, is they come back and it's still the same, and so it gives them some kind of comfort. 鈥� Why don't we change it? Why change it?鈥� Larry said. 

Dorothy said they try to keep prices reasonable and the food the same, although there have been a few tweaks, like closing overnight due to brawls from those coming to 鈥渟ober up鈥� after Downtown bars closed. And, a few years ago, the menus went digital 鈥� which rubbed some the wrong way.

鈥淭hey couldn't believe Frontier would become that modern, I guess,鈥� Dorothy said with a laugh.

The couple, whose daughter is now CEO, are still there several days a week and can barely walk through the dining room without seeing a familiar face 鈥� from weeks or sometimes decades past when, Dorothy said, they took the 鈥渙pportunity of a lifetime.鈥� 

鈥淭he students are now parents who bring their children to school here, and they bring them to the Frontier, and say, 鈥楾his is where I hung out when I was a student,鈥欌�� she said.

Lou

Lou Katsaros sits at a table in the liquor store attached to Monte Carlo Steak House. Fifty years ago, a smaller version of himself hustled around these aisles, apparently dropping things often.

鈥淚 been here from teenager to Social Security,鈥� the 64-year-old said. 鈥淚 remember my dad screaming at me 鈥� I would break everything 鈥� big old klutz. ... I don鈥檛 know where the time went.鈥�

Katsaros and his brother run the historic bar, restaurant and store alongside Central, just west of the river, which was bought by their father in the 70s. Katsaros said he did everything from stocking shelves and bartending to peeling potatoes while his father worked from 8 a.m. till 3 a.m. every day.

Back then, Route 66 was a lot busier and booming. Whatever was leftover, he said, was ruined by the Albuquerque Rapid Transit system installed on the roadway.

But the business found a loyal base of regulars, who now become upset when it鈥檚 crowded with tourists, something he said comes more as a result of its appearances on the TV show 鈥淒iners, Drive-Ins and Dives.鈥�

In the past 50 years, Katsaros has seen generations grow up.

鈥淢an and wife come in with a little baby, and then years later, they go, 鈥榯hat baby had a baby, she's in there鈥欌�� he said, pointing to an imaginary stroller. 鈥淚t's nuts, just unbelievable.鈥�

Katsaros said, like Route 66 itself, he believes people enjoy the nostalgic feel of the restaurant: 鈥�60s-era booths, dim lighting, no windows. Katsaros said he makes a point to meet everyone, while admittedly great with faces and 鈥渨orthless with names.鈥�

But some big ones have come in, like Jay Leno and Warren Buffett, he added. 鈥淢y brother saw Warren Buffett; he thought he saw Jesus.鈥� He said Guy Fieri is a personal friend and visits anytime he鈥檚 in New Mexico.

Last time he visited, Katsaros said he told Fieri they were going to spruce up the place.

鈥淗e goes, 鈥楴o, you're not. Don't change nothing.鈥� He said, 鈥楲eave the extension cord hanging, don't do anything, leave it the way it is.鈥欌��

And that was the end of the conversation. It will stay the same, like the people inside.

From his chair, Katsaros calls out to the staff bustling around. One says he has worked there 22 years, 鈥渕inus eight,鈥� and another says 26 years. Katsaros said there is a lack of mom-and-pop establishments and, for Albuquerque, the restaurant is 鈥渁 landmark.鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 been here so long 鈥� everybody knows the Monte Carlo,鈥� he said. 

Katsaros said he鈥檚 there morning to night and wants 鈥渙ut as bad as you can say it.鈥� But anytime he takes a vacation, he doesn鈥檛 know what to do with himself after a few days.

鈥淚've been doing it my whole life. I鈥檒l just be here forever. I say I've been retiring for the last 20 years, and I still say: 20 more years to retirement.鈥�

Matt Reisen is a senior reporter for the Journal. Reach him at mreisen@abqjournal.com.