October 20
Chap and I loaded up into the truck after a dry hunt. The sun was setting. I looked at the gas gauge. The tank was dangerously low, but two out of the three gas cans lashed behind the camper still held fuel. I didn’t know how much fuel because I didn’t fill them up entirely and both had leaked a little. I looked at the map. The next town was Bill, WY, about 25 miles south. No problem. I put the truck in gear.
Bill, Wyoming was a small town. It had sprung up at a railroad junction. There was one building in Bill. The faded sign above advertised the store’s wares: beer, groceries, gas, post office. A neon sign in the window notified passers-by that Bill was open. I pulled into the unpaved lot and killed the engine. I saw no pumps. I walked inside.
“Oh, no,” the young woman behind the counter told me. “This place hasn’t sold gas since the 80’s.”
“Oh.” We looked at each other for a moment. “Where is the nearest place I can get gas?”
“You can go north to Wright. That’s about 40 miles,” she said. “Or you can go south to Douglas. It’s about the same distance.”
“Durn,” I said. She smiled. It was a pretty smile. “I rationed my gas to get here. I guess I’ll settle for a root beer.”
I asked her how she liked working in Bill. “It’s alright,” she said. “This place is really growing.” That meant, I learned, that the proprietor was building a bar in the back. She took me to see it. The proprietor was a good carpenter. The seams in the floor were tight and the pine planks that would be the bar fit snugly together. The barroom smelled of sawdust and well-oiled saws. “Yeah, he can do anything,” she said.
“All things being equal,” I said as we walked back to the counter, “I always support the building of a bar. But who is your prospective clientele?”
“Anyone,” she said. “You’d be surprised. You can’t tell when it’s going to happen – could be a Monday night, a Wednesday night – but sometimes this place gets packed. About a week ago the coal miners all came in and we partied till 5 in the morning.”
Outside, I poured what remained of my gasoline into the tank and screwed on the gas cap. Then I walked back inside.
“The next time you have one of those parties, I want you to let me know,” I said. “Just send up smoke signals or something. Something big I can see from Georgia. I’ll come a-running.”
“Okay,” she said. She smiled. I grinned as I walked back to the truck. Duration, I sometimes think, is less important than we think.
Bill, Wyoming was a small town. It had sprung up at a railroad junction. There was one building in Bill. The faded sign above advertised the store’s wares: beer, groceries, gas, post office. A neon sign in the window notified passers-by that Bill was open. I pulled into the unpaved lot and killed the engine. I saw no pumps. I walked inside.
“Oh, no,” the young woman behind the counter told me. “This place hasn’t sold gas since the 80’s.”
“Oh.” We looked at each other for a moment. “Where is the nearest place I can get gas?”
“You can go north to Wright. That’s about 40 miles,” she said. “Or you can go south to Douglas. It’s about the same distance.”
“Durn,” I said. She smiled. It was a pretty smile. “I rationed my gas to get here. I guess I’ll settle for a root beer.”
I asked her how she liked working in Bill. “It’s alright,” she said. “This place is really growing.” That meant, I learned, that the proprietor was building a bar in the back. She took me to see it. The proprietor was a good carpenter. The seams in the floor were tight and the pine planks that would be the bar fit snugly together. The barroom smelled of sawdust and well-oiled saws. “Yeah, he can do anything,” she said.
“All things being equal,” I said as we walked back to the counter, “I always support the building of a bar. But who is your prospective clientele?”
“Anyone,” she said. “You’d be surprised. You can’t tell when it’s going to happen – could be a Monday night, a Wednesday night – but sometimes this place gets packed. About a week ago the coal miners all came in and we partied till 5 in the morning.”
Outside, I poured what remained of my gasoline into the tank and screwed on the gas cap. Then I walked back inside.
“The next time you have one of those parties, I want you to let me know,” I said. “Just send up smoke signals or something. Something big I can see from Georgia. I’ll come a-running.”
“Okay,” she said. She smiled. I grinned as I walked back to the truck. Duration, I sometimes think, is less important than we think.
posted by Jeb Butler at 5:56 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home