Outlined in Chicago at the Swissotel: 3/31
Written in Pittsburgh, 4/6/24
The track either east or west of the famous Moffit’s Tunnel, towering over 9,000 feet, had been buried in a rock slide. It would be three days or more to clear. We would not be put up in hotels for a half week, but rather shuttled on buses that had to drive out from Denver empty, and then back with us.
Chris the Conductor, who takes over the eastbound train and works out of Denver, is a fine figure of ebony solicitude, strong of voice and body and mild of temper. As we offloaded, some patrons staying on the train so that Rod could serve them food rather than eating out of vending machines, Chris grinned at Ashcan Sam. I noted that two hard looking, stout Grand Junction Police, stood right outside the back of the jail that was next to the station.
In the station the train cattle were jabbering. Big Dad, nice mom and perky kids, a great family, whose father encouraged son and daughter to do foot races on the platform to burn off energy, were concerned for us lesser plebes. For Dad was just renting a car, my extant lifesavings a mere twinkle in his daughter’s eye, knowing Daddy got things done. Before wishing us well, and me specifically, he noted: “It’s nice to see the country by train and go places. You watch the news, and everything is going to hell. But we spent a week in San Francisco and had a great time. It’s good to see for yourself what the world brings. Sir, safe travels.”
There were three young couples that had been traveling together on some adventure, drinking at Rod’s cafe on the train. They also rented a vehicle. Others used Uber. The rest stewed in the station. I decided to explore the town. I would have rather stayed in the station, But, I pretend to be a travel writer.
I did not intend to go far, especially as I passed the police station and looked up at what had once been a clay pipe tiled desert saloon. Yes, stumbling distance!
[Only need crutches for the backpack.]
I walk over to this place, step up on the wooden walk and see a sign, a circle with a pointer in the middle, colored green that says, “180” Welcome.
‘Is this a trap?’
I was listening for signs of life, thinking of knocking, and a pretty lady in late 30s walked up from the east, “Welcome, would you like to come in?”
I appraised her fair figure as she blushed in the cold wind and I said, “Yes, Miss, I would, if you were not so obviously out of my league.”
She smiled, “Oh, just for a friendly visit.”
“I was hoping to find a bar.”
“Oh, this is a recovery center, for addiction. We cover alcohol too!”
“Oh, I’m going the other way. Do you know where a bar is?”
“You can get beer at the gas station.”
“Oh, drinking on the street with these king kong cops, I’m not that guy. Thank you miss.”
“Sir, sir, please, come in and talk for a while.”
“Have a nice day, Miss.”
I walked north, then east, then north then west:
Catholic Charity Recovery Center
A vacant business for lease.
A gated recovery community, where painfully sober people dwelt in gray box like condos.
A rehab house.
A gas station, with big, young crackers drinking beer on the lot in heavy clothes.
A vacant house, boarded up.
An alley full of big crackers smoking and drinking.
United Way Resource center, the biggest free coffee dispensary I ever saw, with homeless crackers all around, the little ones a head taller than I, mixing with two bikers, a couple hookers… oh no.
I circled back to Chris, “Hey, Chris, after a tour of the ass end of this wonderful town, I see why those cops had no problem with your knucklehead.”
“Oh, this is knucklehead central here—there is no shortage of knuckleheads along the rails.”
“Is there even a bar in this town?”
“Yes, sir. Walk past the hotels there [the backs of which are gated to deter] and then you will get to Main Street. There is a great pub over there.
I walked past the rehab center, where the pretty girl stood and waved as if seeing a soldier off to certain death, and headed to Main Street.
Hipster Recreation Central.
But there, on the north side of Main Street, embedded in some kind of tiny strip mall was The Goat and Clover Tavern. The hostess was, well, what they are supposed to be, young and pretty and nice. Usually nice is an afterthought, as the prettiest young thing in the house is kept working the door so that she doesn’t get all the tips that the older broads working tables need to support their fatherless son playing video games in what should be the guest room. This girl was Irish-Asian—I kid you not. Irasian is now my new favorite babe race!
So, I get to the bar, in a place were most people eat. There is a mÕ½latto nervously drinking a soda. He leaves as soon as I sit next to him. The crowd is all upper middle stripe guilt bright, mostly families eating really great looking Irish cuisine. A huge wide screen TV was on in the back, which was faced by a long bar bench for fantasy football folks.
The bar itself had only ten chairs. Over the time I was there, people seated at the bar seemed to be mostly meeting up for online dates, having one drink and leaving. The rail drinks were really nice and I was moved to ask Jesse, the tall, Gaelic barmaid with tattoo sleeves, “Miss, the drinks look so nice I’m wondering if I can afford a beer.”
She came over and smiled, handing me a menu, “Happy hour is a dollar off everything from 2 to 7, which means our domestic drafts [she must have been psychic, pegged my cheap ass right off] which are normally $4.25 are $3.25.
I grinned, no way was I leaving sober.
I drank until Chris texted me to return to the station to board the bus and bring any other booze hounds with me.
My receipt, minus the final round, which was a Highland IPA, used to wash down some Bushmills, reads:
Coors Light $4.50
3 Coors Light $9.75
Beer Flight $9.99 [4 4 ounce samples of fine beers]
Six pints and a shot and I was pretty well hammered and recall little of the harrowing bus trip over the Rockies in a blizzard, other than the two young men who put on the chains for the driver, who was my age. Snoozed for 3.75 hours of the 4 hour ride. These kids were 2 of 4 skateboard tourist in their mid to late teens that ended up thrilled to be stuck in Chicongo for the coming Sunday night.
Thank you, Chris.
Concluded in We Have a Plan For You.
