Bozeman--Part Four
Well the dawn cracked hard just like a bull whip
Cause it wasn't takin' no lip from the night before
And the sky turned the color of Pepto-Bismol
And the parking lots growled
--Tom Waits
I crack my eyes and see the neon Blue Sky Motel sign shining through the curtains, confirming that I made it back to the room in one piece. Without looking I know it's 0600 because like it or not, that's the time my internal alarm clock sounds every morning. It's an unfortunate habit picked up in the service, one I've never been able to shake, but today I have no desire to get out of bed. The cleaning crew ran us out of the Grill Room well after closing and I seem to remember Jen and her friends dropping me off at the motel around 2 AM. I must have been in a hurry to crash because I'm still fully dressed, and it tastes like a herd of buffalo used my mouth as a latrine. Hmm, those Bison potstickers are comin' back on me, and I think I remember having a couple of beers. I'm definitely gonna need more than four hours sleep.
I hit the deck and peer out the door, see nothing happening that requires my immediate attention, use the head, brush my teeth, and fall back into bed. Two hours pass, but it seems like only minutes before I begin hearing activity in the parking lot. Car doors slamming, engines revving, tires crackling on icy pavement, a dog barking in the distance. I turn my back to the door and assume a fetal position, pull a blanket over my head and attempt to block out the noise. Doesn't work. I'm still hearing things, but different things, and much closer than the parking lot. It sounds like women whispering, and there's the unmistakable sound of someone snoring. Then a woman's voice..."Peterman, wake up. It's after 8. Time for breakfast."
Peterman? This has to be a nightmare. I put a pillow over my head.
Quiet for a while. Then more whispering, but this time it's louder and impossible to ignore. I think I smell coffee. I finally sit up in bed, turn toward the sound and see two women silhouetted against the window, sitting at the round table inside my door. The same voice, this time louder, and insistent: "Get up. We're hungry. We brought Wild Joe's coffee." On the table is a cardboard caddy with four tall cups of coffee. I squint and see that it's Anne and the other girl from Montana Ale Works, the one who's name I can't remember.
Me: "Wha...What are you doing here?"
Anne: "You promised us breakfast. You told us to come at 7."
Me: "Huh? I did? How'd you get in ?"
Anne: "Your door was open. We thought you opened it for us."
Other girl: "We were late. We got here at 7:30."
Anne: "You weren't up. Jen told us to go get coffee."
Me: "Jen? Where is she?"
Anne: "I guess she decided to take a nap. She's right there."
She nods toward the bed nearer the window and I hear muffled snoring again. I stand and attempt to focus and there's Jen, laying on her stomach on the other side of my mound of laundry, snoring like a lumberjack.
Anne: "Sorry about the Peterman thing. We were just jokin' with you."
Me: "Here's an idea. Why don't you wake up Jen and all of you take a hike. I need a shower."
Jen: "I'm awake, and we aren't leaving. You can shower later. We're here to collect."
Me: "Collect what?"
Jen: "You said you were buyin' breakfast. And taking us for a ride. So here we are."
And the ladies treat me kindly
And furnish me with tape
But deep inside my heart
I know I can't escape.
--Bob Dylan
That's right. I know I can't escape. Jen stands, does one of her slow feline stretches, grabs two cups of coffee, walks over and hands me one, says there's cream and sugar on the table. She informs me that Wild Joe's coffee is the best in Montana, I should drink it while it's hot. Anne says it's Honduras dark roast, featured bean of the day. I learned my lesson about cream and manliness at the Silver Spur and I decide to take it black, 'cause apparently I have an image to maintain. It's a fine choice, smooth and strong, chocolatey aftertaste, no need to doctor something this tasty. If they're gonna make me get up, I guess this is a good start.
Me: "I give up. At least let me wash my face. Where we goin' ?"
Jen: "The Cateye. There's usually a wait, but it's worth it. It's your kind of place."
My kind of place? I don't know what that means, and I'm afraid to ask. I suppose I'll find out soon enough. The Turtle has a Confer bench seat in the back, barely wide enough for two kids, but the girls are insistent on a turtle ride so Jen takes shotgun and the other two squeeze onto the bench. They look cramped but assure me they're comfortable, and we're off, the sun still rising over the Crazy Mountains to the east. Anne tells me the locals call them "The Crazies," which seems somehow fitting.
The Cateye is only a few blocks down the street, a block off Main, occupying a small two story building, the cafe up stairs. It's a funky looking place, painted bright yellow with purple trim, one side of the building covered by a huge mural featuring a cow in a pasture ,and snow capped mountains in the background. Interesting, certainly unconventional looking, like the little hippie hole-in-the-wall joints we used to have in Austin, the anti-IHOP. I don't see the connection between the cow mural and a cat eye, but it's been obvious for several days that I wasn't meant to understand anything that happens on this trip, so I don't even bother asking. There's a half dozen people on the sidewalk and a line winding all the way up the staircase. I've never been patient with waiting and this doesn't look promising but my harem insists on staying so we park and get in line. Our timing isn't so bad after all. A wave of people leave all at once and we're seated within minutes. Jen tells me to read the house rules before ordering. She says it'll keep me out of trouble. I don't listen.
Waitress: "Ready to order?"
Me: "Can I substitute pancakes for toast, with an omelet?"
Waitress: "No, you can't, and you're wasting my time."
Me: "Pardon?"
Waitress: "Read the menu. I'll be back later."
Jen: "I tried to warn you."
I find a loose page stuck inside the menu
.
The Way of The Cateye:
--Order off the menu--that's why we have one.
--We will gladly substitute nothing for anything, or we might substitute something for something, but we will never substitute something for nothing. No guarantees, ever.
--Being annoying is prohibited, open to our interpretation, staff excluded.
--If you have a fork, then you don't need a spoon to stir your coffee.
And there's more rules, a full page of them. After going through the motions of studying the list our waitress eventually returns and I end up ordering a BLT omelet--bacon, spinach and sun dried tomatoes, country taters, cut the toast, side of blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup. Jen has banana bread French toast, Anne and the other girl have Cateye breakfast burritos. It's all phenomenal and I have to admit, Jen hasn't steered me wrong yet. As soon as we finish eating the waitress returns with the bill and tells us we have to vacate. There's still a line, and they need our table, so it's "Thanks, hope you enjoyed breakfast, come back again, and don't let the door hit you in the ass when you leave." No offense intended, it's just one of the rules. Our tab is fifty bucks and change but I have no basis for complaining. Even though I never saw a bill for last night's damages, these girls hooked me up for easily twice that much in food and libations and got me back to the motel safely so I figure I owe them, and I'm probably way ahead of the game.
We make our way back to The Turtle, mount up, and Jen says, "Now for that ride."
Me: "You just had a ride. You mean back to the motel, right?"
Jen: "No, we're gonna take you for a mountain drive."
Me: "No way. I need to shower and check out.
Jen: "Why?"
Me: "Checkout time is 11 AM, and I have to be in Missoula this afternoon. It's already past 10."
Jen: "You don't have to worry about checkout time. Remember, you have connections."
Me: "But, but..."
Jen: "You can spare a couple of hours. Missoula is only 200 miles. You can make it in 3 hours."
Me: "No, more like 4 hours."
Jen: "So what, 4 hours, 24 hours, it's not like there's anyone waiting for you. Is there?"
Me: "Sigh. No, there isn't. Tell me which way to go."
Jen says we're about to take the most spectacular drive in Montana. We'll follow a winding two lane path through the valley toward Bridger Bowl, climbing through the mountains and ending in a tiny town called Wilsall fifty miles northeast of Bozeman. It's a paved all weather road, Bridger Canyon Road, and we'd better gas up first because there's nothing but wilderness and mountains along the way. And after we negotiate that drive, there's a reward at the end. She says there's a quaint little pub in Wilsall. Well yeah, of course there is.
To be continued...
ain't that the truth ... Cruiser crack 
This made me 
............
and 
