Population 2

There is little traffic on Route 16. A couple of four-wheelers fly by at an incredible speed. A small boy driving a two-ton pickup truck in the opposite direction nonchalantly tips his cowboy hat as he passes; he can’t be a day older than twelve. Mostly I have the road to myself, empty pavement rolled out through a flat land of grass, with little more than barbed wire fence and telephone lines occupying the vacancy between the earth and the sky—what many people would describe as “desolate.” My portable radio picks up nothing but fuzz, so I listen to an arrangement that is created by the clicking of my rear wheel combined with the howling of the wind, a song that only I can hear.

I see something in the road, in the distance, but I can’t make out what it is. I only know that it’s wide and it’s dark and it’s moving. As I get a little closer I realize that it’s a herd of animals, but I can’t tell what kind. Did a group of cows break through the fence? A little closer and I see that they’re not cows, but horses, a hundred strong, and moving straight towards me. From where I stand I can’t tell how fast they’re travelling. If they’re at full speed I might be in world of trouble, for the animals are stretched across the entire road, from fence line to fence line, leaving me nowhere to go. So I wait it out, and as they move closer and closer I realize that they’re at a mere jog; and I see a half-dozen cowboys riding high on a half-dozen horses, so there is a sense of control. But since I’ve never been in a situation like this before, I have no idea of what to do. So I do nothing; I stand still and let them come. The animals are smart; they create space, parting like the Red Sea and converging again once they pass the foolish man on the bicycle. They casually trot by, and I am emerged in a jumble of tans and browns and grays of different shades. The horses are tall and elegant, with beautiful mains blowing in the breeze, and long tails swaying in the rear. The sound of a few hundred hooves simultaneously clicking against the asphalt is more beautiful than any noise my bicycle has ever made. A few stragglers stop to eat some grass and one of the cowboys circles around and corrals them back towards the group. I remain still, staring at the herd of magnificent beasts as they exit my life just as quickly as they came. When I can see them no longer, only then do I begin moving again, wondering if what just happened was a dream or one of the most incredible realities of my life.

I am jealous. Not of the horses, but of the cowboys. I think at some point during his youth every adventurous young boy aspires to be a cowboy. I know I did. I would run around, wearing my cowboy hat and shooting off my toy cap guns at make believe outlaws. But then you grow up and forget, or come to the realization that the “cowboy” way of life—at least the one you had perceived in your mind—doesn’t so much exist any longer. Sure, there are still cowboys—I just saw six of them—but it’s not like it was in the old days. The guys I passed were driving a herd down a paved highway, and they had walkie-talkies clipped to their belts, not guns. They’ll sleep in beds tonight, not on the hard ground, and they’ll probably listen to bad country music instead of singing songs around a campfire.

I come across a building, the first I’ve seen in I-don’t-know-how-many-miles. There’s an old oil sign out front, rising twenty feet out of the ground, colored red, white, and blue, with the word “STANDARD” written across the center of a giant oval. In front of the sign is a life-sized replica of a horse, painted black with white spots, standing as tall as a horse can stand on its rear end, its front legs bucking high in the air. The building is stucco-white, with an ancient red telephone booth standing out front. Sitting next to the outdated communication device is a bench with three connected seats, like the kind you’d find in an old bus station, its bland-yellow upholstery torn to shreds; and adjacent to that, a long concrete cylinder with grooves running horizontally, which I assume is for cleaning off the bottom of your boots before going inside. In the front window there is a red-lighted sign flashing the word “OPEN,” and beneath that a green and white sign that once belonged to the side of the road. It reads:

SPOTTED HORSE

POP                      2

ELEV              3890

            I walk through the front door and there are exactly two people inside, a lady bartender and a man drinking beer. “What color?” asks the woman.

            “Excuse me?” I say

            “What color beer do you want?”

            “Whatever’s cheapest.”

            “They’re all the same price.”

            “I’ll take a red then.”

            “Three dollars,” she says and hands me a red can of Budweiser. It seems awfully expensive but when you’re in the middle of nowhere, in a town with only two residents, you don’t have much of an option. “Did you see all those horses?” she asks.

            “So, that was real,” I say, “I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or not.”

            “Pretty magnificent, wasn’t it?”

            “Does that not happen often?” I ask.

            “No,” she says, “that’s not something you see every day. Say, I was ‘bout to close the kitchen. You hungry?”

            “Oh, no thanks. I’m actually just waiting for my friend to show up. He shouldn’t be that far behind.”

            “Where you guys riding from?” she asks as she hands the man another beer.

            I tell her about the trip and she mentions that she once worked in Yellowstone. Charlie shows up and gets the same greeting that I did, “What color?”

            “Blue?” he says without really thinking.

            She hands him a Keystone and says, “Three dollars.”

            I walk around the room and look at all the junk that’s piled on the floor, and covering the pool table, and hanging from the walls and ceiling. It’s apparent that these people haven’t thrown anything away in decades, causing the place to look like a miniature flea market. There are old hubcaps, oilcans, beer bottles, license plates, and beverage memorabilia. There’s an old standing scale, a pipe stove, a pair of chaps, a couple of children’s pedal cars, and a whole bunch of cowboy tools that I don’t know the names of. The walls are covered in mirrors and posters and framed pictures, some of characters like the Marlboro Man, but most of friends and family, and their trucks and horses and hunting trophies. There are a handful of dollar bills pinned to a slab of wood, with black inked signatures and initials scribbled across Washington’s face. Above that, an old bicycle, single speed, with flat handlebars, a spring-loaded front suspension, and wide fenders fashioned with a built-in headlight.

            “Some pretty neat stuff in here isn’t there?” says the lady.

            “There sure is,” I say as I sit back down.

            “That horse outside,” she says as she hands the man yet another beer, “it’s from an old whorehouse up in Montana. Didn’t have the spots when we got it. We painted those on.”

            “I see the bicycle up in the corner,” I say. “Do you get many cyclists coming through here?”

            “Bicyclists? No. Never. But motorcyclists, we get them all the time. Even have some famous people come through here from time to time.”

            “Like who?”

            “Oh let’s see, that Fonda guy, from the Easy Rider movie. He’s been here.”

            “So you’re telling me that I might be sitting in the same chair that Peter Fonda once sat in?”  “Well, I can’t remember where he sat. But he was definitely here. You know who else was here? The hair guy.”

            “The hair guy?”

            “Yeah, you know, the hair guy.”

            “Dennis Hopper?”

            “No, no, no. The hair guy.”

            “Fabio?”

            “No. Just wait a sec, I got a picture of him. Why can’t I remember his name? It was only a few years ago.” She flips through a photo album until she finds what she’s looking for. “Here it is, the hair guy. What’s his name?”

            She shows me a photograph of a group of men standing around their motorcycles. There’s Peter Fonda with a big smile across his face and next to him a stocky man with a dark beard. “That’s the guy,” she says, pointing to the man.

            “Paul Mitchell?”

            “That’s it. Paul Mitchell (note: it’s not actually the Paul Mitchell, but his more recognizable business partner, Jean Paul DeJoria), I couldn’t think of his name. Yeah, the two of them come through all the time on their way to Sturgis.”

            She says they were here “a few years ago,” and they “come through all the time,” but the photograph is clearly a couple of decades old, as I can tell from Peter Fonda’s appearance and the fact that the photo has the rounded corners that I haven’t seen on printed images since I was a child. But, nonetheless, the story makes the woman happy, for her eyes light up while mentioning the two celebrities that once passed through. And I’m sure that for the next couple of months she’ll be telling others of the two crazy cyclists that once stopped in for a drink.

            I run outside and grab my water bottles. When I ask if I can fill them up in the sink the woman says “no.”

            “No?” I ask in surprise.

            “Can’t drink the tap water here. You’ll have to fill them up with the bottled water in the kitchen.”

            “What do you mean; you can’t drink the tap water here?”

            “This is natural gas country. The water’s not fit for drinking.”

            “So, the gas companies just tell you that you can’t drink your own water, and that’s that?”

            “They bring us as much bottled water as we want for free.”

            “That’s unbelievable. How do you shower and do dishes?”

            “The water is fine for that kind of stuff, just can’t drink it.”

            “So you’re not allowed to drink the water, but it’s alright to bathe in it?”

            “That’s what they tell us.”

            I fill my bottles from the water cooler in the kitchen and before leaving I ask the woman if she knows anywhere in the area to pitch a tent for the night.

            “I can’t think of anywhere,” she says, “but Thomas here would know. He knows everything about the area.”

            “The only place I know of,” says the man at the bar who’s had four beers in the time I’ve had one, “is the side of the road. But even there, you’re trespassin’ on somebody’s property.”

            I stare at the lever-action rifle hanging above the bar and decide that Wyoming isn’t the kind of place you want to get caught trespassing in. “So, I guess we’re gonna try to make Gillette,” I say before walking out the door.

            A few miles down the road there’s a pickup truck pulled off to the side. A man is standing on the driver’s side, waving at me in the sort of manner that means, “Come here.” I pull up to the rear of the truck and notice that it’s the man from the bar. He’s in his mid-forties, wearing work boots, a stained white t-shirt, a pewter belt buckle and dirty blue jeans; his balding head shows through the plastic mesh of a large-brimmed trucker’s hat, and he carries a thick mustache that is just short of what you would call a Fu Manchu. He looks through me with piercing eyes and says, “I got a place for you to stay.”

            I’m immediately suspicious. Just twenty minutes ago he didn’t know of a spot for us to camp, but now that we’re in the middle of nowhere, and there are no witnesses, he suddenly knows of a place. “Where’s that?” I ask.

            “Just follow me,” he says. “I’ll show ya.”

            “Follow you? I can only go so fast on this bike.”

            He talks in a rumbling voice, with a slow drawl, always pausing for a couple of seconds between each thought. “It’s not far.” Pause. “I won’t go fast.” Pause. “Follow me.”

            I follow him for about a mile before he makes a left on a county road and stops the truck. I pull up to the side and say, “Is it down this road? If you just tell me where it is, I’m sure I can find it. I’m pretty good with directions.”

            “I’ll show ya where it is.”

            “Well alright, let’s go.”

            “Don’t ya think we should wait for yer friend?”

            I look back and see Charlie about half-mile up the road. “He’ll see us turn,” I say. “He’ll catch up.”

            “I think we’ll wait for him.”

            The man keeps his eyes on me and after only a few seconds the situation feels extremely awkward. “So, your name’s Thomas,” I say, hoping to relieve the tension. “I’m Jon, and that’s Charlie back there.” Thomas says nothing. “So you live around here?” I ask.

            “Yeah.” Pause. “Up the road.”

            “What do you do?”

            “Work on a ranch.” Pause. “Say, when’s the last time you had a hot meal?”

            “Well, I had a burrito for lunch, and dinner yesterday at a restaurant in Buffalo, and I carry a portable stove, so I eat pretty well.”

            “But when was the last time you had a real home cooked meal?”

            “I guess it’s been a while since I’ve had a home cooked meal,” I say, “but you’d be surprised what my little stove can do. I’ve made some pretty good meals with it.”

            “Your friend’s here.” Pause. “Follow me.”

            As we follow the truck, I tell Charlie what’s going on. “Seems kind of strange, doesn’t it?” he asks.

            “No,” I say, “not kind of strange, really strange.”

            A half-mile down the road and we take a right onto a long dirt drive. There is a sign that reads:

RECLUSE

TOWN

PARK

This town is called Recluse? Who names a town Recluse? Only bad things can happen in a place called Recluse. It sounds like it’s straight out of a horror movie.

            Thomas stops his truck at the entrance and says, “This is it.” Pause. “Come, I’ll show you around.”

            Show us around? It’s literally nothing more than an overgrown baseball field with a giant chain link backstop, an outhouse, and a dilapidated swing set. How is he going to show us around?

            We follow the truck to the rear of the backstop. Thomas cuts the engine and climbs out, an open beer in his hand. “So, it looks like you boys have two choices,” he says. “You can stay here for the night, or you can ride another thirty miles to Gillette.” Pause. “And I don’t think you can make it there before the sun goes down.” Pause. “So, what do you think, do you wanna stay here?”

            “Yeah,” I say apprehensively, “I think we’ll stay here.”

            “Alright then,” Thomas says and then points to the ground in front of him, “you’ll set up yer tents right here! And nowhere else!”

            “Alright,” I say, “whatever you say.”

            “I’m just joking.” Pause. “You can set up yer tents wherever you want.” He doesn’t laugh or so much as crack a smile. “Now, you set up yer tents and I’m gonna go home and bring back a home cooked meal for you boys.”

            “That’s really alright,” I say, “We’ve got our own food to cook.”

            “Don’t bother,” he says, “I’ll be back.”

            He hops in his truck and leaves the park. Charlie and I look at each other, both unsure of what to think. “So, should we just leave now?” Charlie asks.

            “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I say. “What happens when he comes back with our dinner, and we’re not here? What if he gets really pissed off? The guy’s got a truck. There’s only one way for us to go. It’s not going to be hard to find us.”

            “But what if he poisons our food, waits for us to pass out, and we wake up locked in his basement?”

            “You don’t think I haven’t thought about that?” I say. “This town is called Recluse for Christ’s sake.”

            “So, what do we do?”

            “I guess we set up our tents, eat his food, and just hope that he’s not a crazed maniac. Oh, and if your phone gets service here, you might want to let somebody know where we are, just in case.”

            After about an hour Thomas returns with a small Tupperware dish for each of us filled with steak and potatoes and mixed-vegetables. “You don’t mind if I drink while you eat?” he asks as he cracks another beer.

            “Not at all,” I say, wondering how he would react if I did mind. The food is good, but an eerie silence settles in as Thomas watches us eat with his ever-piercing eyes. So I try to break the tension with some small talk. “This is a pretty nice looking baseball field you got here,” I say.

            “Yep. My brother once hit a homerun here.” Extra long pause. “He’s still alive.”

            He’s still alive? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why would you need to mention that he’s still alive? I hope this guy is just screwing with us.

            “Yep,” Thomas says, “lot a history in these parts.”

            But that’s it, he doesn’t add anything. What history? What could have possibly happened in the town of Recluse, Wyoming that would qualify as “history?”

            “So, what’s the town of Gillette like?” I ask.

            “I hate drugs,” is Thomas’s answer.

            What is this guy talking about? What does drugs have to do with anything? “Yeah, I do too,” I say in agreement.

            “Well, if you boys are done, I’ll take those dishes back.”

            We hand Thomas the empty plastic containers and he takes off in his truck. “Well,” Charlie says, “that was awfully creepy. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to fall asleep tonight.”

            “Don’t worry,” I say, “the sedatives should kick in soon. Then you’ll have no problem passing out.”

            “Word. Don’t joke around about that.”

            “Oh, I’m not joking.”

            The sun goes down, but I can’t sleep. Every time I begin to doze off I think I hear somebody walking around outside, but every time I get up to investigate there’s nothing there. Plus, I’m paranoid that if I do fall asleep, I’ll never wake back up. So I just sit in the dark and wait.

            At the first sign of daylight I wake Charlie; we pack our things and head east towards Gillette. I’m relieved to have survived the night in Recluse, but as I ride away, I realize there was probably nothing to worry about in the first place. I remember something that Thomas told us last night. Just before he drove off, he stopped, rolled down his window and said, “Now, you boys get on that Internet of yours, and you tell people about this place.” Pause. “You tell them it’s safe to come here.” I suddenly realize that Thomas couldn’t have murdered us, because he needed us to lure others in—we were simply his bait.

Note: This story is from my book, The Road and the River: An American Adventure. Currently available by clicking on the link above, or on Amazon.com