Road Trip in Montana, 2004, by TL
From MemoryArchive
Who: TL What: Thursday Night When: August 2004 Where: Southwestern Montana
=== Desperados Under the Eaves === ==== Written By Warren Zevon published by Warner-Tamerlane/Darkroom Music BMI, 1976 I was staring in my empty coffee cup I was thinking that the gypsy wasn't lyin' All the salty margaritas in Los Angeles I'm gonna drink 'em up And if California slides into the ocean Like the mystics and statistics say it will I predict this motel will be standing until I pay my bill Don't the sun look angry through the trees Don't the trees look like crucified thieves Don't you feel like Desperados under the eaves Heaven help the one who leaves Still waking up in the mornings with shaking hands And I'm trying to find a girl who understands me But except in dreams you're never really free Don't the sun look angry at me I was sitting in the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel I was listening to the air conditioner hum It went mmmmmm..
It wasn't Los Angeles. Hardly. It was Southwesten Montana. There’s no ocean. I suppose we were desperados in the Warren Zevon sense - virile, mid-twenties, living in a 1,000 person Montana town. We weren't bandits. We were office workers. But, like Zevon's characters, we had been known to wake up with shaking hands. Our nightlife would, by the modest and pure Midwestern standards that each of us had been raised, qualify us for some type of deflated social status - above felonious but slightly below reputable.
The sun was hardly angry. It was beautiful. It rained down on the Pintler range with more intensity than it had all summer. It's radiance was a motivating factor, as we had been out late the night before and had struggled through the daily office tedium. There was a distinct exuberance about the trip. Missoula was our Paris. It was filled with cafes, women, pleasantries and conveniences that we had been deprived of for months.
We traveled calmly but eagerly - 75 miles one way. We ate dinner at a bar. We drank a few beers. We bought a nasty pornographic magazine for a friend's bachelor party. But we had a purpose for this trip, other than killing a Thursday evening. JJ needed a mattress. He had found one in the newspaper, slightly used and a price low enough to make it appealing. He was to pick it up at an apartment somewhere near the public library.
We circled the block twice. We were sure we were at the right place. JJ said the mattress was supposed to be on the back porch. He had called the person that afternoon and he said he would leave it there. All he had to do was slide a check under the door.
JJ pulled the truck into the driveway. Scott and I stayed in the truck. JJ knocked several times. He waited. No one answered. There was no mattress to be had. Scott and I let out a giggle. JJ shuffled back to the truck. His head was slightly bowed. "Fucking mattress isn't there," he said. Scott and I let out another giggle.
JJ pointed the truck towards the highway and headed towards home. We stopped at the Town Pump convenience store. We bought a case of Pabst Blue Ribbons for the ride. We grabbed three or four each. I stowed three extras in the glove compartment. JJ put the rest in the back of the truck.
We pulled out onto interstate 90 and headed south towards home. The windows were down. The sun was beginning to hide behind the Bitterroots. But it was warm enough to make it that rare day in Montana when a few inconsistent beads of sweat can form on your brow from merely riding in a car. The wind blew through loudly. One of us mumbled something about a CD. Willie Nelson starting to play through the speakers. There was no discussion. From time to time, we would disharmoniously join Willie. We drank our beers - swiftly, ravenously, contently.
Darkness fell. The old truck hummed along the highway at about 85 mph. We reached Drummond and our exit to state Highway One. The cab was filled with empty beer cans. JJ stopped the truck in the middle of the exit ramp. He got the rest of the beer from the back and threw the empties behind the cab. Not a word was exchanged. Willie did the talking.
We were home in forty five more minutes. The beer was gone. It was completely dark. We went to our favorite watering hole. Ordered more beer. Played the jukebox. The conversation never began. The end of the week made us hopeful. Responsible only to ourselves and with the majestic Pintler range serving as a mote against the wider world of ambition and opportunity - we carried on, satisfied and indifferent.
