It’s High Noon. I stand in the intersection of Front
and Main Street. A big cluster of clouds line up on the horizon. The Greyhound
has stopped here for lunch and at first I’m disappointed as I look around to
find myself in the middle of another nowhere town, it seems. Looking in the
direction of Main Street I can look both ways and almost see the whole town.
There’s not a single store, as far as I can see, that looks like it might be
opening anytime soon. All of them look like they’ve been closed for years and
nobody ever cared to post a notice to that effect in the windows. A couple of
them sport some advertising posters that I’m sure are at least twenty years
old. Turning to Front street the first thing that catches my eye is the
American flag flying high on top of the Fire Station house trying to fight this
sudden sleet coming from the north. The local bank announces on its windows the
upcoming Fourth of July parade, which is still more than two months away. On
the other side of the railroad tracks, the water tower stands tall and proud as
if trying to prove to any visitor or passer-by that this was once a thriving farming
community. There’s only a couple of parked cars and pickup trucks but no sign
of traffic anywhere. I get a sense I’m in a different time altogether, as if
the town was frozen in the 1900’s and I’m about to see some real working
cowboys on their horses coming down Main Street or cattle being driven to
pasture.
The sleet has turned to snow and I head to where the
bus is parked. The engine is still running and the smell of the diesel mixed
with the cigarette smoke from some of my bus companions make me wish we were
back on the road. Then the sudden smell of grease in the air raises my
attention to the “Frosty Freeze” and a sign that announces the best burgers and
fries in the state of Montana. From outside it looks like one of those places
from the Depression captured by the photographers of the Farm Security
Information. I step inside and I am overwhelmed by how even the smell of
recently brewed coffee isn’t enough to subdue the strong smell of burgers and
fries coming from the kitchen. At the counter sit two old men drinking coffee,
the only costumers in the café. They both got John Deere caps on, faded jeans
and cowboy boots that I’m sure have seen better days. They both look past their
prime and judging from a long life of hard labour, they should be retired
somewhere else where sunshine is prominent. But they don’t let a single air of
disillusion for the life they chose and for the difficult times they’re
certainly going through. Quite the contrary. They thrive in surviving despite
all the setbacks. Right there I find the spirit of every single small town in
America, stamped in their faces.
I sit at the counter a stool away from them and watch
as Bill, the one closest to me keeps eating his bacon strips from a plate with
his arthritis’ hands. He has an habit of touching the tip of his cap every once
in a while that I’m certain is the result of years of tipping it to the ladies.
Tom sits next to him and keeps reading the newspaper’s weather predictions over
and over again as he’s sipping his coffee real slow. He wears suspenders that
only highlight his slight hunchback. They talk about the weather and how if
this snow doesn’t let up, they will soon have to dig up their snow plows. It’s
the end of April and Bill says he hasn’t seen this much snow so late into spring
in more than fifty years. They finally acknowledge me with a tip of their caps.
I nod back and I can see tiny drops of bacon fat hanging in Bill’s thick grey
moustache. They keep discussing the weather and how this constant sleet and
snow will ruin the crops of hay pretty much for years to come. The
owner/cook/waiter comes back from the kitchen and places an order of burger and
fries in front of Tom. He then serves me coffee and asks if they’ll be
something else. I say that famous burger and fries looks good to me and he goes
back into the kitchen to prepare my order. I look around and notice a big clock
on the wall with a pendulum that seems to be running slow. Not only that but
both Bill and Tom seem to do everything to its slower rhythm. Bill is still
eating his bacon strips and Tom sipping his coffee to the rhythm of that slow
pendulum. I look outside and see the rest of my bus companions boarding the bus
on the snow and only then remember hearing the driver announcing that this will
only be a 15-minute cigarette break. I call out to the kitchen and say I’m
terribly sorry but I need to get back on the bus so I only be having the coffee
to go. Tom turns to me and says he’ll be glad to let me have his order to go. I
thank him and finish my coffee and pay the owner who hands me a Styrofoam
container with the burger and fries.
As I head to the exit I cannot help but notice a few
used books by the door which are intended for trading by the townsfolk and
travellers. I browse through them and find a very worn copy of Thomas McGuane’s
“Nothing But Blue Skies” which I’ve been wanting to read ever since I read
“Nobody’s Angel” years ago. I reach for my backpack and take out William
Kittredge’s “The Willow Field” which I had just finished reading on the bus and
trade it in for the McGuane novel. I look back at Bill, Tom and the owner and
they give me an approving nod and a tip of their caps. I step outside and run
for the bus as it’s ready to leave and take my seat up front just in time to
see Tom reaching for the Kittredge book and taking it with him to the counter.
I smile and look at the McGuane book as the bus roars by and tries to fight the
sleet and snow that is starting to pour on down heavier now. The windshield
wipers at full speed can hardly keep up with the snow falling in front of the
bus. I can hardly see anything past a few feet in front of me as we keep
rolling on I-90. I grab my burger and fries and eat the best burger I’ve had in
the state of Montana without a doubt, looking straight ahead at the snow that
is finally letting up. I open up the book and start reading as the slower
methodical sound of the windshield wipers pushing the snow from the windows
seem to be marking time.
No comments:
Post a Comment