In the late part of February my cross country trip is hardly half-done. Later tonight I will be in the cozy home of my dear friend Cody Hilburn, nestled in the suburban recesses of Longmont, Colorado.
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The Flatirons
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Cody was my best friend in the Navy, but that was nearly four years ago, and since then we've gone to live far separate lives. Cody works on computers for a small subsidiary of IBM in Boulder.
The Boulder Valley sits beneath the shimmering crags of the Flatirons, which peer down on the sparkling valley that connects the Rockies to the Great Central Plain of the US. Over the past decade or so, the suburban expanses heading Northwest of Denver have exploded with techonlogy-based industries, which have, in turn, lured Cody here with hopes of a long and profittable career in computers and that Rocky Mountain high.
Now, nearly 1,500 miles into my journey, I'm only an hour from the Colorado border, in a little place among the endless stretches of sunflower fields and manure, called Oakley, Kansas.
In the rank air of the great central plain, it's time again to top off the tank of my 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee. I stop at a small gas station in this twinkling little hamlet for the all-too-usual full body stretch -- the whirling, sputtering half-yawn accompanied by violent jumping jacks -- before entering a gas station to locate a restroom.
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I walked in and no one was there. The empty store pulsed before me and in a flash all the stories of gas station robberies froze my gait as I listened for signs of a struggle or muffled cries for help. This particular store sat alone and the only thing parked in the lot was a solitary Oldsmobile from generations ago, and, of course, my Jeep. Realizing that it was late and that the clerk may be conducting his graveyard shift duties deeper within, I fixed my eyes upon the back walls to locate the toilet, trying to forget who or what might lay waiting.
The women's restroom door was open, pinned against the wall by a large trash can. Surely, this would explain the location of the clerk. I heard footsteps and water running from inside and finally felt safe. As my nerves calmed, I entered the men’s room and found the urinal and began evacuating my bladder when a male voice thundered into the bathroom.
“How ya doin?” It said.
Confused, I made no reply. This was the first time I had been addressed so directly in a public toilet. After washing my hands I returned to the store’s cooler doors to locate something to fuel me for the next 5 hours, until I reached Cody’s house in Longmont. I was also constipated from driving.
I spotted a Snapple in the cooler door and recounted for a moment the many times I had purchased the very same product to hold me over for the night shift in VAQ 138’s hanger. Having just this morning departed the home of my old buddy Dave Loska, I was beginning to miss those old Navy days when we were all miserable together, slaving over aircraft for the war effort. Cody, who was my next layover in Boulder, would buy Snapples back then, too. We’d gather round in the Line Shack to read aloud the superfluous trivia facts under our bottle caps, something like: South Carolina had the first tea farm in the United States.
After selecting Peach Mangosteen, I walked back to the front of the store to the register where I found the clerk assisting a customer. I could tell by the employee’s brash gestures that he was a bit odd. He was well-built, and there was something finicky and spastic in his movements.
He had a high energy level, coupled with that overtly kind, recalcitrant behavior servicemen are taught when they take up the profession. His nametag, pinned upside-down, read “Gary,” and he had a large portion of grey putty holding together the temple of his wire-framed glasses. Taking the customer’s money, he craned his neck to me, peering through them and sharpened his expression.
“How ya doin’,” he shouted hastily.
“Good,” I replied softly, diverting my eyes, not quite knowing how else to answer the stranger.
The customer in front of me, a young man dressed as a waiter, took his change and exited the store. I placed my drink on the counter, reaching with my right hand to retrieve my wallet.
“Feels good, don’t it?” The clerk inquired.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
He looked up, as if delivering the punch line of a joke he had made countless times.
“To get something for cheap that’s good for ya,” he pointed down at my Snapple while staring hard into my eyes, waiting for a response.
“Oh,” I replied, considering what to say next. “Well, exactly. That’s all I drink these days. Healthy stuff. I hardly even drink Cokes anymore, you know?”
I clearly had no idea what I was talking about, merely saying what people are supposed to say in such situations. We migh as well have been talking about the weather. I also thought back to why I had chosen the Snapple in the first place—for the sugar content, which was high enough to keep me alert for hours. And sugar isn't good for you, right? Who knows? I sort of sighed, waiting for my change, and turned to look at my vehicle, towing an eight-foot trailer while supporting a seventeen-foot kayak, parked by the pumps.
“H-hey,” I stuttered. “Any idea how long it takes to get to Boulder? I’m trying to get to Longmont.”
I had asked such questions to gas station clerks at every leg of my journey. It was a way for me to gain human contact after having been on the road, alone, for so long.
Normally I would ask questions for which I already knew the answer. Such exchanges typically went smoothly, with me leaving in a courteous wave goodbye. In Indiana, though, a young, Iranian-looking cashier, when I asked what town we were in, replied in perfect English, “Where are you trying to go?” I responded, “Carbondale. But I know how to get there. I’m just wondering where we are now.” He turned to his superior, possibly his father, and said something in another language, something like, “This guy wants to know where we are. Where are we?” It was a curious situation because they both appeared to be locals. We were somewhere near Lynnville, he said with a shrug.
But I was beginning to regret that this time would somehow be different, that there was no way of leaving without a strange episode between Gary and me.
“Hold on a minute, sir.” Gary kneeled to fetch something and disappeared beneath the counter. He rose again clutching a clipboard holding laminated papers. “I’m just goinna have ta check it for ya. I’m not sure. Not sure how far it is. But give me second.”
He flipped impatiently through about five pages when I decided that this was taking too long. All I wanted, I told him, was for him to speculate. “Just take a guess,” I said.
“Hold on sir, I’m trying to find it, OK,” he answered in a thin, determined voice.
“Hey, man, forget about it.” I told him. “I think I have a pretty good idea. It’s like two hundred thirty miles, or something. No big deal. I’m just following my GPS, so I’ll be fine.”
“Sir, if you would give me just a second.” Gary seemed possessed by the more assiduous spirit of a man of a loftier profession. “Now, I’m reading here that it’s two hundred fifty miles to Dacono, which is pretty close to Boulder, I think. I’d say you got about two hundred thirty-four, two hundred thirty-five miles.” He stared at me in a frozen expression.
“OK,” I replied. “Thanks,” I said, politely turning to leave, wondering if our time together was finally meeting its end. “Well, I sure appreciate the help. Yeah. That should be around four hours. OK, good night.”
“How fast you travelin’?” he sputtered quickly. “I can figure out how long.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Seventy-seven, seventy-eight. It’s no big deal. Anyway, good night.” I smiled and quickly stepped to the door as Gary kneeled under the counter and began flipping once again.
“Sir, if you would hold on a minute, I’ll figure it out for ya.” He began to look impatient, as though I were wasting his time with sophomoric quiz questions. Turning to his left, he reached for an adding machine, as if to solve this great mystery with irrefutable accuracy.
By this time, though, I had enough of Gary. I pushed open the door and grinned, saying finally, “Listen, don’t worry about it. I’m going. No problem. Good night.”
Finally, as I stepped through the door into the cool dusky wind, Gary turned, glancing up, and shouted, “Alrighty, sir, you come on back and see us now next time you’re in town, OK?"
There was no way.
