Butte-Part One
“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”
-- Jack Kerouac
The ride to Butte from our roadside meditation outside Whitehall is less than thirty miles, a scant half hour at turtle cruising speed. We continue west on Interstate 90, cross the Continental Divide outside Pipestone, pass through Beaverhead-Deer Lodge National Forest, and soon we've reached the outskirts of Butte without even breaking a sweat. In the weeds a hundred yards off the road is a beat up old sign advertising RD's Travel Stop. It sounds like a locally owned business. We decide to check it out, gas up, and ask a native for a dining recommendation.
RD's is a glorified convenience store several blocks off the highway, Conoco gas pumps outside, a steady flow of working folks going in and out, reminding me of Alsup's in Spearman, Texas. There's a line of pickups at the pumps. I wait for our turn, fill the tank with real gas, park at the outer edge of the concrete apron, go inside and ask the clerk where to find a decent breakfast. She's early 20's, overweight, purple hair and piercings, bloodshot eyes, smacking hard on a mouthful of gum. I should have known what was coming.
"We got McDonalds, Waffle House, Burger King, and if you want nicer, we got a couple of IHOP's."
Not what I had in mind. I ask if there's any place the locals go to eat. She works her gum, thinks, shrugs, draws a blank and says "I guess there is...I wouldn't know." And that's it. I thank her and begin making my way back to The Turtle, formulating plan B for locating a diner.
Outside, right on cue, is just the guy I've been looking for, standing in front of The Turtle holding a steaming cup of RD's coffee, taking an occasional sip, looking at the truck, deep in thought. If this was a western movie, he's the guy you'd call "old timer." He's wearing denim overalls over a starched white dress shirt, spit shined boots, snowy white hair, sporting a fine looking stash, his outfit topped off with a baseball cap that says "Korea Veteran," a Purple Heart ribbon crookedly pinned to the side of his cap. He looks like a stock character straight out of Hollywood central casting, a cross between Teddy Roosevelt and Wilford Brimley. Before I can speak...
Old Timer: "This yours?"
Me: "Belongs to a friend, but yes, I'm driving it"
Old Timer: Grunts... "I drove one, in the 50's. Helluva a rough ride."
Me: "Maybe you're thinking of a Jeep. This is a Toyota. A Land Cruiser."
Gives me a look. I recognize the look...he's beginning to wonder if I'm an idiot...
Old Timer: "I know what a damn Jeep is."
Me: "No offense. I didn't think Land Cruisers were imported to the states until the 60's."
Old Timer: "I didn't say
where I drove it. It was Japan. After Korea. Stationed at Zama. Army Engineers"
Me: "Where is Zama? I've been to Tokyo, and Yokosuka. Never heard of Zama."
Old Timer: "Camp Zama. Army base. Thirty miles from Tokyo."
Me: "Oh. And the trucks you drove looked like this? Like the 40's?"
Old Timer: "Not the 40's. I just told you, it was
in..the...50's, at Zama.
Nine...teen...fifties."
Me: "Yeah, sorry."
We seem to have a small communication problem. I decide to change the subject before he punches me out.
Me: "You live around here?"
Old Timer: "Do I look like a damn tourist? Been here all my life, except for my vacation with Uncle Sam. Why?"
Me: "Could you recommend some place I can get a home cooked breakfast? A place that isn't a franchise restaurant?"
Old Timer: "You want fancy, or you want real food?"
Me: "Real food, like biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs, that kind of food."
Old Timer: "Gamer's Cafe is what you want. Downtown on Park. Looks fancy, but it's not. Best breakfast in Montana."
Me: "Thank you. Gamer's it is."
Now I'm on a roll. The old timer and I have made a connection, over food. I decide to ask him about Kerouac's "perfect bar," the famous M&M Cafe and Bar.
Me: "Being a local, I guess you know about the M&M Cafe?"
Old Timer: "Yep. What about it?"
Me: "I've read about it. Wondered if it was still open. Wondered if it was worth seeing."
Old Timer: "It's a goddam $hithole. Don't waste your time."
Me: "D'oh...I read somewhere that it was the best bar in America. Jack Kerouac said so."
Old Timer: "Maybe 50 years ago. I told you it's a $hithole tourist trap. And a dirty $hithole at that."
Me: "OK, got it. Well thanks again for the tips."
Old Timer: "Any time, young feller."
Me? Young feller? It's all a matter of perspective and coming from him, I'll take it. I don't laugh. As I climb into The Turtle, the old timer walks away toward a row of parked pickups. He walks slowly and with a pronounced limp, hobbling more than walking. Could be anything from arthritis to a work injury to being wounded in Korea. I remember his Purple Heart ribbon and imagine that it's from Korea. There's probably a story there, because this is the road, and on the road, everybody has a story.
...to be continued
?? I had to re-read it to even find it. Great job keep it up don't change a thing .... He talked just like he should and it paints a picture in my mind for sure
