Friday, March 3, 2017

Montana Motel Blues #3

He was out the door of room 121 before the crack of dawn. The fluorescent lights of the lamp posts still reflecting their red and yellowish color on the wet asphalt of the parking lot. He noticed that the “M” from the motel neon sign was unlit and wondered if he hadn’t noticed it last night when he came in or if it just went out during the night. He made a mental note to tell the motel owners about it on check out. He headed to his 1999 GMC Sierra pick up with Wyoming license plates featuring the Grand Tetons on the background. He walked with an accentuated limp on his right leg. He took a pack of loose tobacco and rolling paper from the ashtray cup holder and took his time to slowly roll a near perfect roll-your-own American Spirit cigarette. He placed the cigarette in the left corner of his mouth, hanging by a thread and looked for matches in the breast pockets of his black cow suede vest. When he didn’t find any he didn’t bother to look elsewhere. He kept the cigarette dangling from his lips and took a pair of coyote gear gloves from the glove compartment. He proceeded by cleaning up the bed of his pick-up truck. He unstrapped the bungee cords from the hard plastic containers and took a cleaning cloth from one of the containers. With such precision that you would believe his life depended on it, he began to, systematically and methodically, clean the dirt off his tack and rodeo gear. He started with the roping reins and the harness, followed by the noseband with buckle, ending with the leather saddle bag. When he was done he took a brush from the other container and with the same precision he had applied to his tack and rodeo gear, he shined his Tony Lamas until they itself were shinning and reflecting the rising sun over the underpass. He did the same with his Ken Dixon hand engraved sterling silver belt buckle. At the end of it he found himself breathing heavily and panting for air. Little drops of sweat rolling down into his forehead protruding from his Resistol Cattleman Silver Belly Cowboy hat. As he took a step back, feeling the pain in his limpy right leg he felt the need to lay down ever so briefly. He abstained from it and instead rubbed his right knee with such abrasiveness that the pain slowly started to subside. He took his gloves off and found his stainless steel coffee cup on the coffee cup holder and headed for the motel office as the motel neon sign and the fluorescent lights on the parking lot were being turned off one by one. The sun was already rising over the interstate to the east. The soft wind flapping the tiny triangle-shaped flags strapped to the parking lot lamp posts advertising the annual Miles City Bucking Horse Sale. A few lights turned on from inside some of the rooms as he stood outside the motel office door feeling the wind hit his cheeks for a moment. The distant sound of a TV set in the room adjacent to the office coming on, tuned to the local news channel. He looked at his reflection in the glass door. All dressed up in his Cowboy get-up. The thought he had been avoiding since the sale and that he had been able to put in the back burner until this moment staring straight at him. He had suddenly become a 47-year old Cowboy with no horse to ride. He shifted his hand-rolled cigarette from the left corner of his mouth to the right with a touch of his lips. He straightened up his Gold and Silver Eagle bolo tie and got in the door and only lingered enough time to drop his room key and fill up his stainless steel coffee cup with freshly brewed hot coffee from the breakfast buffet table being set. He limped his way back to his pick-up truck, placed the cup on the roof of the cab and secured the hard plastic containers with the bungee cords. He circled the pick-up to strap them from one side to the other but stopped midway in pain, crouching and holding his right leg. He was face to face with one of the bumper stickers in the back fender of his pick-up. “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” it read. He remembered the occasion where he bought it more than thirty years ago at the Cody Nite Rodeo. He straightened himself up and grinned at the futility of that bumper sticker now. He stood motionless for a moment feeling the wind in his face. That seemed to rejuvenate him. He held his right leg straight up with both his hands and got in his pick-up. He turned on the engine and rolled down his window. He took his cowboy hat and placed it on the passenger’s seat. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a red bandana he found in his coin tray. He looked straight ahead at the traffic starting to clutter the frontage road parallel to the interstate. The sun was hiding behind a big cluster of clouds and the wind was picking up. He wondered what would he do from now on. How he would make a living. Was it too late for a 47-year old has-been third-tier rodeo cowboy to start a new life? He spit the hand-rolled cigarette out the window and drove on out of the motel parking lot. At the intersection of I-94 he looked at the interstate signs like he’s done so many times before. I-94 West leading back home to Wyoming. I-94 East leading to places unknown. But this time he looked with intent at them like he didn’t know where each was leading to. He pondered that his life couldn’t be more uncertain as it was at that moment either way. He stretched his left hand outside his window and followed wherever the wind blew.

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