In July 1947, a flying saucer went skipping like a stone across the New Mexico desert. “Most people think the ship crashed in Roswell, but it only hit the ground before bouncing up and landing in Corona,” says Pat Jennings, ex-military UFO enthusiast and “Mercenary Genius Extraordinaire.”
Our route into town was opposite of the flight path, my wife and I barreling through the New Mexico desert at 65 miles per hour down US-285 from Clines Corners, a hiccup of a town.
It was my birthday weekend, and when my wife asked what I wanted to do, I just pulled out the itinerary I’d prepared and pointed to a map of Roswell.
It was like Mecca to a UFO freak like me, and I’d wanted to see it for myself since I was a kid.
“I know it’s just a little town with nothing to really do, but I bet I could get a funny article out of it. And Carlsbad Caverns is just down the road, so we could go check out some bats, too.” Secretly, I was hoping that I would somehow get to see a crashed UFO, or at least a dead Gray, but I decided to keep that to myself.
From two miles back, I could see the first landmark: a Super Walmart with “Welcome to Roswell” painted on the front window, surrounded in little green men.
I needed supplies before we dove in, so I stopped.
My initial human contact came in the form of a tooth-grinding redneck couple in the parking lot, skulls grinning through their skins. The man was marching purposefully to their car, somehow managing to keep from tripping over the hems of his ancient JNCOs (possibly the last remaining pair in existence). He ignored his girlfriend as she scratched at an elbow so sharp it could cut a man in two.
“Fuck that bitch. I already gave her ten dollars. She trippin’ on that bad bad.”
Pay no attention. Just go inside, buy your beer and souvenir shot glass and pray that the ETs never saw anything like this while they were compiling first impressions.
[continued at Right Where You Are Sitting Now]