National Treasures

by Ryan McCord

CHAPTER 13 THE COWBOY STATE & A GEM OF A VACATION

  It’s nearly time for last call in the Mountain Time Zone, as James and Gerry have managed to do nothing but drive and stop for gas for as long as Omaha.

  And now the idea of practicing applied, standard intellect is nearly inconceivable at this mile. Common sense also, has become lethargic. Neither anticipated any noteworthy culture shifts throughout the long drive over. For instance, just what sort of clientele happens to frequent a watering hole in The Cowboy State at this hour? Who or what to keep an eye out for? Pickpocket whores? Bloods or Crypts? Gypsy Jokers? Pool Sharks? Switchblades? Or maybe they prefer slingshots and stones here. Surely, these sorts of public menaces cannot exist in a state that’s shaped like an ordinary square. But when it comes to our current setting of Wyoming, James and Gerry have not generated one grain of thought towards any possibility of a sticky situation. It’s all been taken for granted. So they certainly couldn’t be aware of the negative impact alcohol abuse alone had on this town in particular: Cheyenne always manages to make the infamous Men’s Magazine annual list dubbed “The Top 20 Tipsy Towns in the USA.” The list, released in March’s issue, is paired with a 1,500-word investigative article entitled: “The True Gateway Drug?” The subtitle directly below states: “An Updated Look Into Alcohol’s Social Impact on America”.

  Well on paper anyways, James’ trusty atlas proves that they had indeed gained an hour simply by traveling in the western direction. The green-lit digits on the truck’s radio show 2:35 AM, but one unfamiliar with this territory needs further confirmation after a brutal haul. The visual cue in front of them; a parking lot full of old pickup trucks and 80’s era Buicks underneath a 15-foot high blinking yellow sign that reads Marty’s Drive-Thru Liquor & Lounge will do.

  James and Gerry breathe a sigh of relief in knowing they had successfully traveled back to an hour where one could still belly up to a mahogany bar to enjoy a shot and a beerback before buckling up again.

  They voyaged through the night, defying the odds in the process. When your driving through America’s forgotten land, the only thing you can look forward to when it’s your turn behind the wheel at 12 am, is the hour you’re eventually going to get back (even when its still hundreds of miles away). It may have been April and agreeable all the way back in Florida, but its still winter out in America’s Black Sea: the old plains alley, the subsidized Farm Belt, or however you want to identify the middle column of the USA that I-90/84 & 80 pass through. It’s seemingly home to nothing but wheat, corn, deer crossing signs, truckers, farmers and Holsteins. And that’s during the daytime. Because once the sun goes down out there, it becomes lonelier than a 50th birthday and colder than the dark side of the moon.

  But the region itself, from your view behind the wheel, only appears to be of no great shakes. There is indeed a long established 365-day system going on for which the country relies upon pretty heavily, and you got to respect the painstaking contributions made simply for the betterment of society that surround the road itself. The very best the USA has ever had to offer, that being Freedom Defenders in World Wars, were born and raised here. Post 9/11 minutemen practically reside here, serving on nuclear alert in the bunkers deep below the Interstate’s surface.

  This is also the land that feeds America. One can argue the nourishment provided from harvests’ past and present play an X-factoring role in rearing man’s innate abilities to conceptualize revolutionary ideas throughout time like four-wheel drive, the Star Wars saga, modern stand-up comedy, and the million-dollar backup quarterback.

  But even in land stretches of great volume and seclusion, there is still little escape from the endless noise provided by the jackhammer that’s having its way with humanity. Where time truly has become money: The Material World. By passing one hotel and fast food billboard after another, the driver must ignore invitation for dialogue that rapidly morphs into delusions of grandeur. Certain pleasures will repeatedly attempt to disguise and rationalize itself as “earned” for the driver and his persistence throughout the long day: flipping between sports highlights and Kim Kardashian on cable television, free internet, a takeout bag full of cheeseburgers, another bag full of beer cans, resting on a tired bed in a $45 dollar non-smoking room. When you start over in the morning the focus will shift towards the morning’s coffee of choice: McDonald’s or Starbucks?

  James and Gerry were discussing the very topic of mind manipulation effects those billboards indeed have while accidentally entering Marty’s by way of the drive through side. “I just kept reminding myself,” James said, holding the sliding glass door open for Gerry behind him. “That I’ll have 24 hours to sleep comfortably, free of charge, once we get back home.”

  Momentarily the atmosphere would feel askew for both, and not because they just entered a rare drive-thru liquor store and bar all in one, or because they entered it through a sliding glass door at 1:37 AM, either. There is a sense of hopelessness, a miasma of despair that emanates itself through the doorway 10 feet ahead that divides the two areas of the business here. James decides to give the other side, the bar side, one quick sweep of a discreet look, as if he were looking for the bartender and not for any freaks with handguns or eye patches. Through the thick plumes of smoke, the patrons facing him, he sees a couple of shapeless, dirty blonde hussies quaffing at their bottles of Molson Ice. The one with the overbite may have winked, as the other just continued to look suggestively in his direction. He could have sworn, for the first time in his life, he saw two people under the same roof with a lazy eye. And somewhere in the middle is where he sees a man with thick, dark mullet, wearing what appears to be a heavy canvas construction jacket. By the looks of it, narcosis is at work: his head is buried in his left arm, his right hand holding a cigarette that looked as if it had been burning idly for a number of minutes, as an inch of ash buildup is ready to surrender to the comprehensive laws of gravity before the next classic rock song (Deep Purple seems about right) begins on the jukebox. These aren’t your granddad’s brood of drunks, James thought.

  James then turns to the glass cooler against the same wall just a few feet to his left, and makes a quick mental note that its stocked full of single beer cans both short and tall, with price tags. Tall Miller High life cans, with a neon green tag reading “Special!” lists as 2 for $3. A bell rings. Common sense is coming back around.

  In through from the other side comes the stubbly, round faced bartender of medium build. His forearms are dressed in ink, his dark receding hair buzz cut. At first, his body language and countenance looked to be saying, “How did you guys get in here?” But once he judged James and Gerry as just a couple of cologne wearing mama’s boys passing through town just to pick up a few beers, he smiled for commerce’s sake.

  “Is there something I can help you guys find?” He said assertively, his eyes twitching when together when they weren’t blinking one by one.

  Not feeling the need to cope artfully with anyone over whether or not to go to the bar’s side, James obediently grabs four of those High Life cans out of the cooler and lays them on the counter. The bartender dries off his hands from a nearby towel as he gives the two a quick look over. If this were an hour earlier, he would have carded them. But since his shift is winding down and he has plenty of cleaning left to do before he can punch out, he’s not even curious as to where these guys are from.

  “And a pack of those vanilla Black & Milds,” James points behind the bartender.

  Besides the total price owed, not another word is spoken between the three.

  Since it was Gerry’s turn to drive, on their way out to the truck, James tosses over the keys and proceeds to the back end to put the beers in the cooler. “We’ll just have to wait for breakfast,” he said passively.

  A new set of unwelcoming driving challenges would present itself an hour or so after departing Cheyenne, as the only thing keeping the drive from becoming literally impossible would have been for a snow storm to pass through, leaving stat
e authorities no choice but to administer a complete shutdown of the highway throughout much of the land itself (where such protocol is common to these parts). Competing against the elements here, by comparison, would make the earlier challenge of driving through the surplus of consecutive mundane Midwestern miles seem more desirable than a semester of Geometry. Snowdrifts and ice patches occupy parts of lanes. Violent winds continuously nudge at the truck’s sides, reminding James of his old daily subway commute through the heart of Manhattan during rush hour. But of course, this isn’t man jockeying for position. This is Mother Nature’s Swan Song for the given winter, showcasing a tapestry of obstacles in the quintessential high planes area of the Old West. Rocky Mountains. A business-like approach to driving must be taken: two hands on the wheel. Even the use of driving gloves would not be snickered at. Cellphones should be shut off, not just because they present a distraction, but in order to preserve power in case you find yourself in an emergency of stuck-in-a-ditch-somewhere proportions.

  When you factor in all that is associated within the context of what James and Gerry were up against: time of year, time of day, weather/climate, terrain, marooned from access to needed resources (i.e.: gas, tow truck, mechanic, highway patrol, etc.), an army of annoying big rigs to share the road with (and they say the skylarking UFO’s here are peskier here, too), it all combines to create the lower 48’s most impregnable region in highway driving.

  And to think, all this just to sign a baseball contract in time. A decision that probably would have been made for already if Gerry’s four-year-old nephew had not tried to blow up his father’s cellphone in the microwave at 2 AM a few nights ago. And yes, given the era we live in, Gerry could have gotten through to his brother in any number of ways. But he had sensitive information that he did not want his mother to know about unless he was there, in flesh, to reassure her that everything was going to be fine. In other words, he held his mother’s personal well being in higher regard than his own future as a pro baseball player. And that, no matter who you are or where you come from, must be respected. You only get one in Mother in life. And if a son should go through life being a Good for Nothing else, he damn well better make the effort to protect his own Mom when he can manage.

  Not until Southern Idaho, at 10:48 AM, at a Floor Store Retail Giant, a few minutes north of Twin Falls, when the two decide it’s finally time to get out of the truck for at least 30 minutes.

  In order to smoke some grass, James parks the vehicle in the outskirts of the business lot, truck facing the store, windshield cover up. At the current traveling pace, even if they take a 45-minute break in a place of business where the parking lot’s square footage alone rivals that of most thoroughfares in Idaho, they would still make it home before the old man falls asleep on the recliner. It’s been roughly a 24-hour drive from Iowa City to Twin Falls. How did they manage to accomplish such a driving feat? These two did not have a choice, however, most males do have an inherited knack for driving with resolution. And since two is always better than one, the idea of stopping anywhere for anything for an extended period of time never entered the stream of consciousness after the highly anticipated break in Wyoming fell through. This particular pit stop appears to be worth the wait, as the grass will provide enough driving gusto to take care of the next four hours. Then around the time they sober up, they will realize they are only another four hours away. The motivation to make it home for a hot supper will take care of the rest.

  The temperature, for the first time since they were in Florida really, is noticeably tolerable. The sun is out, the skies are mostly marble blue and white, and there appears to be no breeze of any kind.

  It’s good to be back in the Northwest, they both thought, as they begin making a 200 yard walk towards the Floor Store.

  The guy behind a clean, 30’ platinum colored Fleetwood Storm motor-home parked alongside the outer curb of the parking lot, near the furthest corner from the store itself is Craig Plykus: a God-fearing, honest American and registered Republican since 1980. One of his quirky habits is that he can whistle without puckering, and the last great song he hears will almost always become his default expression throughout the day. As of now he’s whistling the saxophonist’s solo for Glenn Frey’s, “You Belong to the City.”

  With a pair of tongs, he’s turning over his hamburger patties in a square plastic container next to an unlit charcoal grill setup behind the rear end of the camper. The patties have been marinating in that container since he got up at 6 AM, in a concoction that includes a can of Budweiser, three tablespoons of teriyaki, one raw grade AA egg and a splash or two of hot dog juice.

  When you see a guy getting ready to barbeque behind an RV (with a Palin for Prez sign facing out from inside the rear window) in a parking lot in a place of business like Floor Store, part of you thinks, “Are you kidding me?” Another part of you may think, “Only in America: where an Austrian born man, who once starred as a pregnant man in a full-length feature film, can literally GOVERN the most populous state; while a voter who shares much of the same political philosophies as the Austrian, can cook USDA certified beef over an open flame in a retail parking lot…Gotta love it.” And finally you think, “I bet that guy has some story. But I really shouldn’t speak to a stranger who supports Ms. Palin, in a Floor Store parking lot, grilling burgers in Southern Idaho in April unless he speaks to me first.”

  And that’s just what Craig Plykus does; he’s a regular “pull up a lawn chair” kind of American. It’s been said that everyone has a story, but few have as many as Mr. Plykus.

  “Hell of a day, ah?” He said with his scratchy, if not grating voice, smiling at the two opportunistically.

  That was enough for Gerry to engage in a friendly conversation. James on the other hand, gets quiet around strangers after smoking grass, and reminds Gerry that he needs to get some socks right away. In order not to come across as snobbish, he reasons in Craig’s direction.

  “I lost all my clothes back in Illinois.”

  “It’s your lucky week,” Craig responds instantaneously, pointing his tongs in the direction of the store, squinting his left eye. “They have some tube socks on sale for like $3.99…as long as you don’t mind gray,” he said, pulling his denim pant leg up to show the very product he was talking about.

  As James begins to walk towards the store anxiously, he turns back and points to Craig’s feet as if to say, “Those ones: got it.”

  “Every vacation for me,” Craig said to Gerry with a twinkle in his eye. “I get a new package of socks. Don’t even wash ‘em. Putting a new pair on is a great way to start your day.”

  Gerry then went on to share with Craig why a couple of boys from Pullman happened to be in this part of Idaho on a Wednesday morning in April, shopping for socks. Craig found the story rather fascinating, and insisted that Gerry and James stay for lunch.

  “No, really,” Gerry assured. “We can’t stay here much longer.”

  Craig, a 6’3”, gangly 40-year-old man with salt and pepper stubble is crouched down with a newly lit cigarette in his mouth. Whistling away, he’s attempting to light the grill by dropping a kitchen match on top of a neatly placed pyramid of charcoal briquettes. Not until the second try is he successful. He’ll then put the lid on, turn to Gerry, reach in the front breast pocket of his red and black flannel jacket for his cigarette pack and offer one. Gerry declines.

  “You got time for a cig,” Craig pressures.

  “I only smoke when I’m in a hitting slump,” Gerry shakes his head. “Thanks anyways.”

  With the assistance from the black, custom made screen shirt underneath his jacket, Craig started to explain just what he was doing with the slick looking RV that he borrowed from his neighbor. The front of the shirt shows a large yellow outlining of a rock and roll drum, with a drumstick at each side. Inside the lid of the cylinder itself reads in yellow block lettering: PLYKUS “Big Pleasure” FAMILY FESTIVAL. The back end replicates the generic layout for a major rock band wor
ld tour shirt, but instead of a list of dates and locations for a given tour, is a list of vacation trips over the years. The Plykus’ went to D.C. in 2003, Ft. Lauderdale in ’05, and New Orleans last year.

  Gerry happened to read out loud the first Family Festival in 2001, which was in Vegas in October. This also happened to double as the meeting place and honeymoon location for Craig and his current wife Patty, a former touring stylist of the International Hair Expo. She quit her own dream job to marry him just 24 hours after they had met.

  “I often refer to my family of five as The Family Jeter Built,” he said with a very satisfied look after exhaling his cigarette.

  Craig went on to explain that he was a truck driver at this time, delivering some goods from Procter and Gamble in Cincinnati to the Riviera Casino in Vegas.

  “I was probably 32, rudderless…with nothing else to do but drive,” he said ruefully. “You know what I mean?”

  He paused for a second, taking another drag from his Marlboro red.

  “Well I guess their regular Vegas guy had disappeared.”

  Craig can tell he has Gerry fully tuned, and he starts to tell the story as if it had life or death implications-as if it were ‘Nam.

  “This story will only teach you that in life,” he giggled retrospectively. “Great timing, stars aligning, luck, whatever…”

  He looks back in the store’s direction, “Happens rarely.”

  He goes on, casually wagging his index finger. “It sure sticks in a good way. Just don’t depend on it.”

  Maybe because he hasn’t told this story to a stranger before, Craig experiences a sudden, minor revelation of sorts. He then grins impishly. He then goes on to explain that he met Patty while she was on her smoke break from the Expo, outside the Riviera’s sports book. She asked to borrow his lighter while he was smoking by himself. He described it as love at first sight. Soon enough, they hit it off and end up spending the night together.

  Craig then looks over his shoulder nervously, making sure none of his kids are around and speaks softly, “But between the booze, the hotel room, the Rondell White, the AC Green, the hooker, and gambling…I blew almost everything I had.

  “The second night, she was working. I decided, for reasons only God AND the Devil know about, to let everything else I had ride on the Yankees, who were already down two games to none to Oakland…in the playoffs…in a best of five…IN OAKLAND!! The Yanks were heavy dogs. I did the hypothetical math, you know, should I win having wagered $500.

  “So I booked it,” he said as if he robbed the sports book itself.

  “You know in hindsight, I guess the impulse to do it is because baseball just makes me feel good. It’s in my blood. Growing up, my mom and grandma both always had a game on in the kitchen while cooking dinner…so I in a sense I was spending $500 for therapy. McCarver and Buck my shrinks.”

  He chuckles at his indiscretion again as Gerry just stands there, smiling with his arms folded, anticipating the anecdote’s punchline.

  “Derek Jeter made the flip play to save the game,” he said. “And it was such a nail-bighter all the way through that…I kid you not…accidentally had only one beer.

  “I’ve never felt better sober than after that game though,” he said. “I won a little over $2,000 that night.

  “I remember buying her a ring from a loan shark across the street for a grand,” he said, getting a little choked up.

  “We got married the next night,” he continued. “And here we are.”

  “I’m speechless,” Gerry said.

  “And I’m a SOX FAN for crying out loud!” Craig roared in laughter.

  “But it was right after 9/11, you know what I mean?” He said, feeling the goose bumps on his arms. “Everyone was rooting for New York.”

  Gerry then asks about the significance of Jerome, Idaho, being that this year’s Family Festival was being held there, according to the shirt.

  Craig shakes his head with regret, dropping his cigarette to the ground and smothering it out with his sand colored work boot.

  “You’re standing in Jerome, my friend,” Craig said with angst. “I got laid off a few months back. Patty is breadwinning courtesy of Fantastic Sam’s.

  “The kids are on spring break,” he sighed. “The neighbors went to Disney World and lent us the RV.

  “We all needed to get out of the house at least. Floor Store was just a tentative deal at first. But here we are on Wednesday and nobody is bored yet. The management here has been cooperative and it’s allowed us to stay under our budget until we splurge on camping somewhere for the weekend.”

  Gerry then, after briefly expressing his sympathies for the family’s economic hardships, for no reason other than a simple effort to change the mood, seeks Craig’s own interpretation of the baseball prophesy he has been searching for the right filter all this time.

  “The game of baseball will bring you to your knees, huh?” Craig said, appearing distracted as he grabs the tongs, whistles for a few seconds and squats to see if the vents are positioned correctly underneath the grill.

  “Well I’m no expert on anything,” Craig continued, further analyzing the state of the grill. “But ever since I’ve been out of work, I’ve paid more attention to the man upstairs, you know what I mean?”

  “Okay,” Gerry said, a little surprised. “So you’ve been praying, or what?”

  “Oh yeah,” Craig said, clearing his throat and turning to the other side to spit. “You know what he’s telling me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not to worry,” Craig said, looking at him with a straight face. “He will take care of us.

  “But that’s just my situation,” he emphasized amiably. “The important thing is I got an answer…so maybe what your brother meant…I don’t know…is that it could, should or will bring you to your knees to pray about it.

  “Only he knows when you’re supposed to get off the stage, Gerry,” Craig concluded.

  A little dumfounded by Craig’s supposition, Gerry could only shake his head in response. He won’t say it, but when they get back on the road in 15 minutes, Gerry will look satisfied. As if he had been granted the keys to a city.

  “So Craig, where is the family?” Gerry said.

  “Oh they’re in the store doing whatever,” Craig responds, as he is now carefully dropping the patties on the grill, dodging billows of smoke in the process. “They’re to be back by noon for lunch.”

  He then whistles along.