September 3
I parted with Squatter today. Left him at Pard’s RV Repair in Salt Lake City so that the mechanics could fasten the camper more securely to the pickup. I’ll fly out of SLC to ATL tomorrow, and won’t return until late on the 15th after I’ve spent time with the family and my southeastern friends. When I get back to Utah, though, the camper will be bolted to the frame in the front and to the bumper in the back. Forest Service roads, beware! Squatter and I will be ready. But today I started missing Squatter as I rode Salt Lake City’s municipal train – the “Trax” – back into downtown, bags in hand, to find a hotel. I was alone.
From the Howard Johnson Express where I left my belongings and took a shower, I jumped on the Trax again and rode out to find a bookstore and a restaurant. As I sat in Murphy’s Pub reading “Roadside Geology of Utah,” eating a cheeseburger and sipping on a local brew, I listened to the unintelligible but heartfelt blather of an overserved gentleman who claimed variously to be from Afghanistan and Greece. Thankfully he didn’t bother me. “I am from Greek,” he was saying to the unnerved patrons he cornered. I left half my beer on the table, as is my new custom, thanked the waitress and walked back to the Trax.
I disembarked the train and turned to walk to the Howard Johnson. I had taken about one step when an attractive young woman in a baby blue outfit said, “You got a phone?”
I lent her my cell phone, and she called a cab. “Where are you going?” she asked me. I told her. “Can you pick me up at the Howard Johnson by the Trax?” she said into the phone.
Opportunity! exclaimed part of my mind.
Beware! screamed the rest of it.
I decided to listen to the second portion, as is my new custom. She spoke with the exaggerated intonations, the ambiguous slang (“and I was like, ‘this is whack’ . . .”), the egocentrism and the nervous energy that often indicate heavy drug use and a life spent in the world’s seedier sectors. We walked to the HoJo, toward the main entrance door. “I’ll wait with you outside for the cab, if you don’t mind,” I said. We stopped. The abridged life story she told me was not coherent. It jittered across space and time like bouncing ball hurled into a warehouse.
Heather[1] was 24. She had just finished dinner with her ex-boyfriend, who had custody of their child. “It’s because he has a wife and a job – he’s stable. Besides, with the child support and everything, it just works out better that way.” Heather had been born in West Virginia, but had spent most of her life in Great Falls, Montana. Father in the army. Her grandmother, who was like her mother, had killed herself. That was in Salt Lake City. Heather lived with her best friend, who was a guy. Tyler had the hookup. When he finished his two years for drugs, he got lodging with two other guys for $240 a month and got to go to school for cheap. He was studying geology, like that book I was holding. He worked at the same time and did well. But she and Tyler would never work out together. He had communication problems. Heather used to have a job but she quit showing up and got fired. Telemarketing. She couldn’t sell things to people by calling them, they had to call her. Sales by telephone weren’t her thing. She didn’t have the hookup like Tyler. She wasn’t in jail long enough. She went in for possession. It was a 3rd degree felony. That meant she couldn’t hunt anymore – no guns. She was like, can’t you downgrade that to a Class A Misdemeanor, but they gave her this Spanish lawyer who barely spoke English and she got a felony instead. That meant she couldn’t hunt. She didn’t know what she would do now. For awhile she had stayed with a Mormon bishop – well, he was going to be a bishop, he wasn’t yet. You have to do a lot of stuff to be a bishop, like have a wife. He had five kids. He had wanted Heather to marry him, but she was like, no. She didn’t know what she would do now. Maybe nursing. Yes, the schooling to be a nurse was hard but it was cheap. She didn’t know. Maybe she would just go home to her mother in Montana. Tell her things just didn’t work out. She knew she would end up just going home.
By the time the cab came Heather had grown uneasy around me. She was dancing side to side as she spoke, swinging her arms. She had borrowed my phone again to make sure the cab was on its way. I stood there leaning against a column, asking her questions, trying to make her feel comfortable. Sometimes people who have struggled socioeconomically, who have swerved on the wrong side of the law, who haven’t had an education like mine react that way to me. It is as though they perceive me as a part of an establishment that has marginalized them and that continues to persecute them. I think Heather saw me, subconsciously, as a link in the track of a bulldozer bound inexorably for a distant destination with no room aboard for her. She was cordial when she climbed into the cab– “bye, it was good to meet you” – but she was glad to leave me behind.
After she left, I walked inside to my room. I yawned. I would type a few lines, read awhile, and go to sleep around midnight, as is my new custom.
[1] I changed her name here.
From the Howard Johnson Express where I left my belongings and took a shower, I jumped on the Trax again and rode out to find a bookstore and a restaurant. As I sat in Murphy’s Pub reading “Roadside Geology of Utah,” eating a cheeseburger and sipping on a local brew, I listened to the unintelligible but heartfelt blather of an overserved gentleman who claimed variously to be from Afghanistan and Greece. Thankfully he didn’t bother me. “I am from Greek,” he was saying to the unnerved patrons he cornered. I left half my beer on the table, as is my new custom, thanked the waitress and walked back to the Trax.
I disembarked the train and turned to walk to the Howard Johnson. I had taken about one step when an attractive young woman in a baby blue outfit said, “You got a phone?”
I lent her my cell phone, and she called a cab. “Where are you going?” she asked me. I told her. “Can you pick me up at the Howard Johnson by the Trax?” she said into the phone.
Opportunity! exclaimed part of my mind.
Beware! screamed the rest of it.
I decided to listen to the second portion, as is my new custom. She spoke with the exaggerated intonations, the ambiguous slang (“and I was like, ‘this is whack’ . . .”), the egocentrism and the nervous energy that often indicate heavy drug use and a life spent in the world’s seedier sectors. We walked to the HoJo, toward the main entrance door. “I’ll wait with you outside for the cab, if you don’t mind,” I said. We stopped. The abridged life story she told me was not coherent. It jittered across space and time like bouncing ball hurled into a warehouse.
Heather[1] was 24. She had just finished dinner with her ex-boyfriend, who had custody of their child. “It’s because he has a wife and a job – he’s stable. Besides, with the child support and everything, it just works out better that way.” Heather had been born in West Virginia, but had spent most of her life in Great Falls, Montana. Father in the army. Her grandmother, who was like her mother, had killed herself. That was in Salt Lake City. Heather lived with her best friend, who was a guy. Tyler had the hookup. When he finished his two years for drugs, he got lodging with two other guys for $240 a month and got to go to school for cheap. He was studying geology, like that book I was holding. He worked at the same time and did well. But she and Tyler would never work out together. He had communication problems. Heather used to have a job but she quit showing up and got fired. Telemarketing. She couldn’t sell things to people by calling them, they had to call her. Sales by telephone weren’t her thing. She didn’t have the hookup like Tyler. She wasn’t in jail long enough. She went in for possession. It was a 3rd degree felony. That meant she couldn’t hunt anymore – no guns. She was like, can’t you downgrade that to a Class A Misdemeanor, but they gave her this Spanish lawyer who barely spoke English and she got a felony instead. That meant she couldn’t hunt. She didn’t know what she would do now. For awhile she had stayed with a Mormon bishop – well, he was going to be a bishop, he wasn’t yet. You have to do a lot of stuff to be a bishop, like have a wife. He had five kids. He had wanted Heather to marry him, but she was like, no. She didn’t know what she would do now. Maybe nursing. Yes, the schooling to be a nurse was hard but it was cheap. She didn’t know. Maybe she would just go home to her mother in Montana. Tell her things just didn’t work out. She knew she would end up just going home.
By the time the cab came Heather had grown uneasy around me. She was dancing side to side as she spoke, swinging her arms. She had borrowed my phone again to make sure the cab was on its way. I stood there leaning against a column, asking her questions, trying to make her feel comfortable. Sometimes people who have struggled socioeconomically, who have swerved on the wrong side of the law, who haven’t had an education like mine react that way to me. It is as though they perceive me as a part of an establishment that has marginalized them and that continues to persecute them. I think Heather saw me, subconsciously, as a link in the track of a bulldozer bound inexorably for a distant destination with no room aboard for her. She was cordial when she climbed into the cab– “bye, it was good to meet you” – but she was glad to leave me behind.
After she left, I walked inside to my room. I yawned. I would type a few lines, read awhile, and go to sleep around midnight, as is my new custom.
[1] I changed her name here.
posted by Jeb Butler at 10:34 AM
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