In Search of a Beer I Find a Story

In Search of a Beer, I Find a Story

On the morning of April 5th, we woke up in Williams, Arizona. We enjoyed our unexpected stay at the Best Western Hotel on old Route 66. I have some questions about Williams, Arizona but it’s largely a very attractive tourist town nestled in the woods. The night before, we’d been caught in a gentle snow flurry that turned into a near whiteout just as we parked our truck.

It had been a long drive from Tehachapi, California, and we had clearly overextended ourselves. In the cab were my sidekick and wife, Mary, and our two cats, Midnight and Iori. I think it’s fair to say we were all exhausted that night.

We left Williams in the morning and wanted to drive as far as we could. The problem was that we tried to limit our actual drive time each day to about five or six hours. With a couple of breaks, a six-hour drive easily became eight or more. That would have put us squarely in Albuquerque, New Mexico, which—for a variety of reasons—wasn’t an option. (I’ll discuss those in another blog.)

As we passed through Gallup, we were caught in another snow flurry and pulled into a shopping center on the outskirts of town. Not sure I like Gallup much. Then we drove through Thoreau, which I liked even less, and soon realized we were running low on gas. We had maybe two more hours of driving left in the tank and knew we wanted to get past Albuquerque.

We sped east on Interstate 40—Mary driving, me navigating—so, being the best co-pilot ever, I fell asleep. And this is where the story gets messy.

When I woke up, we had already passed through Albuquerque. Mary hadn’t wanted to wake me because I looked so tired. I glanced out the window and realized we were climbing into the Sandia–Manzano foothills. We had to crest Sedillo Hill at about 7,000 feet. It’s not a steep climb, but by that time of day, our Toyota Tundra usually gets tired and has no problem letting us know. This time it was telling us we were killing it—and, by the way, we were nearly out of gas.

The needle sat nearly on empty, but not to worry—the next town was only fifteen minutes away, and the fuel light had just come on. That meant we were good for about eighteen miles. That’s when we got a traffic alert: an accident up ahead. A slowdown (orange) quickly turned into stopped traffic (red) on Google maps. With no gas stations in sight, we scanned our phones for options and did two things: we prayed, and we panicked. It’s not easy being a world-class navigator.

I guess they had cleared the accident by the time we reached the Moriarty exit—which, rather than seven minutes, took an excruciating thirty. But we made it. Our first stop was the gas station. The next stop was the hotel. The last stop for the night would be the liquor store—if I could find one.

Let me tell you about Moriarty. It began as a homestead established in 1887 by Michael Moriarty, who built his ranch just west of where the town now stands. The railroad arrived in 1903, establishing Moriarty as a water and supply stop. Route 66 came through in 1937, and the town became a welcome respite for travelers heading east and west. In the 1970s, Interstate 40 was routed around the town, carrying most of the through-traffic away.

Moriarty remains proud of its place along Route 66. It’s a quiet town, but as the Pinto Bean Capital of the World, locals still celebrate the Pinto Bean Fiesta, a nod to the days when this basin fed much of the Southwest. It’s held every October, if you’re interested. It’s a quiet town. It’s a very quiet town.

Inside town, the roads were clear enough to navigate. Locals in four-wheel drives moved with the easy confidence of people used to sudden weather shifts. The sky hinted at sun, but the wind still carried flakes—the last exhale of an April storm that, by nightfall, would vanish as suddenly as it had arrived.

We found our hotel, checked in, and unpacked. Now to find a liquor store in the driest “wet” town in New Mexico.

Let me explain: a dry town is one that does not allow alcohol to be sold or served. Conversely, a “wet” town does serve or sell bottled alcohol—a colloquialism used mostly in the southern states. Technically, there are no laws forbidding the sale of alcohol in New Mexico. However, Moriarty comes darned close, and here’s how: state law prevents the creation of a completely dry county, but smaller communities or precincts within a county may impose local restrictions—such as limited hours or zoning rules on liquor stores.

There are also restrictions on how close an establishment selling or serving liquor can be to a school or church. The distance is 300 feet in a straight line, effectively a 600-foot circle around each church or school. Under New Mexico law (§60-6B-10 NMSA 1978) and its related regulations (15.10.32 NMAC), a church is legally defined not by denomination or size but by use and function—any building primarily used for religious worship. And in Moriarty, there are a lot of very small churches. I’ll get to that later.

Having grown up in California, I learned that every corner had a gas station, and it would gladly sell you beer. If you weren’t at a gas station, there was beer and wine at 7-Eleven. If there was no 7-Eleven, any grocery store had beer, wine, or liquor. My theory, based on experience, was simple: shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Wrong.

First stop was the hotel snack shop. The clerks looked confused when I asked about it and said no. Okay, there’s a gas station across the street—it had two dozen different energy drinks, but the same answer. Back to the hotel for the car. This was going to be a journey.

I made a left turn and started heading down Route 66 to find the Get and Go. With a name like that, they must have beer. Sadly, no. At this point, I was no longer interested in the beer; I wanted to know why there wasn’t any. Next stop was a place called Linda’s, which was like a small-scale version of a Pilot Truck Stop. Cars and trucks parked in separate areas. Linda’s seemed to be the local hangout—busy, with a line of seven or eight people and one cashier—but still no liquor. I had given up on finding beer, but I had to know why.

Quickie Mart—no liquor. Family Dollar—no beer. Circle K—same story. In California, these would all be go-tos for a six-pack or a White Claw (for the Missus).

I decided to head back to the hotel, defeated, and that’s when I saw a sign that said “liquor liquor liquor”. This must be the place. As I walked to the door, I saw several more signs that said “liquor” and one that specifically said “beer.”

It was an indoor swap meet, but at the very back—where an old supermarket used to be—there was a brewery. This might work. But, said the beertender, if I bought a beer, I had to drink it at one of their tables at the very back of the building.

The store was enormous and largely empty. I asked the beertender why the tables were so far back in an empty supermarket. She said, “Three-hundred-foot rule.”
It didn’t click at first. So I asked where I could buy a beer to take back to my hotel room. She said there was only one place in town—Blackie’s.

Blackie’s was another enormous old supermarket building, this one at the edge of town. Clearly, this was the place—people were walking in and out with bagged purchases. Posters of celebrities advertising tequilas lined the walls, and a life-size cardboard cutout of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hawked his brand, which I’ve heard is pretty good.

The selection was huge—bottom shelf to top shelf. And the crowd was… lively. Town drunks with bottles in brown bags, regulars chatting near the door. I grabbed a four-pack of Moscow Mule, went to the counter, and met Angie.

Angie was in her late thirties, with an enormous smile and easy charisma. She wanted to tell me the story of Moriarty—and she was a great conversationalist. Eventually, I worked up the courage to admit I was from California. She grinned and said she wouldn’t hold that against me.

I asked her why I couldn’t find liquor anywhere, and that’s when I learned what the three liquor rules were:

1. You can’t sell liquor near a school.
   
   

2. You can’t sell liquor out of a gas station.
   
   

3. You can’t sell liquor next to any church establishment.
   
   

The three tenants of New Mexico law (§60-6B-10 NMSA 1978) and its related regulations (15.10.32 NMAC)

I said I’d noticed a lot of churches.
She smiled and said, “Yeah—and more coming.”
Then she added, “There are only two liquor stores left in town.”

By then, the beer had become insignificant. But I did get something out of this two-hour journey: sometimes you go out for a beer, and you come back with a story.

Drink them both in.