Butte--Part 4: Catching Up With Johnny
“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
--Jack Kerouac
It's been only seconds since Johnny bolted, but I've already lost sight of him in the throng of tourists gathering on the sidewalk in front of the M&M. It looks like a tour group has arrived, and they're providing good cover for anyone wishing to disappear. I hesitate, then decide to make a token attempt to catch up with him. Maybe apologizing again will make both of us feel better, and I can leave Butte with a clear conscience. I begin trudging north on Main Street, hopefully in the direction Johnny took. I'm entertaining several disturbing thoughts, one of which is that I ate way too much, again. Good old Myrtle, my Gamer's waitress, was correct; I ordered enough breakfast for three lumberjacks and now I'm paying the price, suckin' wind with every step as I negotiate the uphill grade. It feels like I'm scaling Mount Everest with a 50 pound bag of sand stuffed in my scivvies. I vaguely remember something about gluttony being a mortal sin, not a comforting thought. I don't know what I was thinking when I over ordered. Maybe I have an eating disorder. Maybe I need professional help. More likely, I need to use common sense and show some restraint. I vow to be a more responsible eater in the future. I make a mental note to add that to my New Year's resolutions. Yep, that should work. Sure it will. But surviving a belly ache is a minor concern at the moment. More important, why did I put myself in this position, and with a person I don't know? Why didn't I just keep my mouth shut? This guy, Johnny, seemed to be in good spirits until I asked about his wasted arm. Clearly the question was out of line but I can't take it back, and if I find him, what do I intend to say? No point in stewing about the appropriate words now. I'll come up with something, if and when I see him.
I make my way through the maze of sightseers and a couple of blocks from the M&M, at the corner of Main and Granite, Johnny is under an awning leaning against a building, lighting a smoke, staring at the ground. I stop a few feet away to catch my breath. I know he sees me, but he doesn't acknowledge. Instead he takes a long drag, holds it in, doesn't look up. He's smoking an unfiltered Camel, very old school, and from where I stand it's easy to pick up the distinctive aroma of Turkish tobacco. It's a smell I remember from childhood. Camel was the smoke of choice of my Dad's generation, a manly cigarette. John Wayne smoked Camels, four packs a day, and everyone knew the Duke would never steer you wrong. Johnny holds the stub with his thumb and index finger, lit end cupped in his hand, just the way they taught it. Hide the cherry. Don't expose your position. Don't make yourself a target. Old habits linger.
Me: "Hey, I apologize for the question about your arm. It's none of my business."
Johnny: "Forget it man. You're not the first. I'm used to it."
He hasn't looked up and he's still trembling. I'll have to do better than this. He looks even more frail than I'd first thought. He can't weigh more than a buck twenty. Maybe he's hungry. Maybe a hot meal will help.
Me: "I was about to check out the M&M. I still want to see it. Walk back with me. Breakfast is on me."
Johnny: "You can buy me a drink."
Me: "Coffee. And breakfast if you're hungry. But no drink."
He mulls it over. "What the hell. Why not..."
He pushes off from the building, turns and without waiting for me, starts walking down Main. From several paces behind I notice a slight hitch in his stride. He touches down with the ball of his right foot, then shifts weight to the left. It's a subtle off-kilter gait but his movements are so swift and smooth that they don't appear awkward. With each step he feints right then leans left, more a practiced glide than a limp. The effect is strangely graceful. I wonder if he was once an athlete, and I wonder about the limp, but this time I listen to my mother and don't ask. I catch up and walk alongside him in silence.
In front of the M&M Johnny stops, says "So, here it is," nods toward the door and goes in, me following behind. With the old timer's comments and Kerouac's description in my head, I expect to see a dingy smoke filled bar crowded with colorful local characters--gamblers, prospectors, drunks and whores. In fact that's what I was hoping to see. Instead the place is clean and well lit, and everyone inside looks, well, normal. On the left is the infamous bar, unmanned, no drinkers at this hour, a few tourists snapping photos, and on the right is an old-fashioned lunch counter and a line of swivel stools on stainless steel pedestals. Several men and women who don't appear to be tourists are hunkered over breakfast platters of steak and eggs, biscuits, pancakes, the smell of coffee and fried bacon heavy in the air. Behind the lunch counter there's an old guy in a white apron cooking hash browns on a griddle. He turns his head slightly, says "Mornin' Johnny," keeps on tending the griddle. So Johnny is a regular here, and he's welcome. That's a good sign. We take seats at the far end of the lunch counter and Johnny asks if I was serious about springing for breakfast. I say "Sure, knock yourself out." There's no menu, but I can see that they have all the usual breakfast fare, and lots of it. Johnny says the drill is, you tell Pete the cook what you want and he'll fix you up. He orders a ham steak and eggs, country fried potatoes and biscuits, and we both have coffee. It's hot, strong and black, and it seems to stimulate conversation, more or less.
Johnny: "So what do you want to know?"
Me: "I just wanted to see what this place looked like. I've read about it, thought I should take in some Butte sights before I move on."
Johnny: "Not much to see here. Just another old bar. We got dozens of 'em. This is just the most famous, and I guess the oldest."
Me: "Well, at least I can say I was here, drinking with the ghost of old Jack Kerouac."
A weak attempt at humor, and it falls flat. Obviously it's the wrong tact. He looks sideways at me, expressionless, keeps on eating. Eggs and potatoes rapidly disappear but the ham steak is massive and he stops halfway through. He hasn't touched the biscuits. He tells me that he's never been able to finish one of these steaks. He asks Pete for a carry out container, then mumbles something that sounds like "If you don't mind, I'm gonna take the rest of this home to my mama. She loves breakfast ham and Pete's biscuits." What? He has a mother? And a home? I've already bought into the stereotype of a homeless person living on a cot at the Salvation Army. Strange, but I feel relieved to learn that he isn't homeless.
Pete brings a take out bag and refills our coffee.
Me: "So you're from Butte?"
Johnny: "Yeah."
Me: "Live in town?"
Johnny: "Yeah."
Me: "Nearby?"
Johnny: "Yeah."
He's a man of few words. Actually a man of one word. Better if I wait for him to take the lead. It doesn't take long. He looks pensive, blows into his coffee, takes a sip, clears his throat, and starts talking.
Johnny: "My old man used to drink here. One beer a day after work, on the way home. He said it washed off the slag. I think about him every time I'm here. Probably why I keep coming back."
Me: "He's not living?"
Johnny: "He passed in '85. Twenty years ago this month."
Me: "Sorry. You must miss him."
Johnny: "Every day. He was a tough SOB. Rough as a cob. Not many like him around any more. Not that I can see."
Me: "No, I guess not."
Johnny: "He was a copper miner before the war. Then a paratrooper. Dropped over Normandy on D-Day. He was at Omaha Beach."
Me: "I bet he had some stories to tell."
Johnny: "He didn't talk about it. He said he was just a kid, scared $hitless. That's all he ever said. That he was scared, just like the rest of them. Takes a man to admit he was scared, ya know. Like I said, he was a tough old bastard, but a helluva good man. His name was John. I'm John Junior. Mamma and I miss him a lot."
He's reminiscing, talking more to himself than to me, which is good because I don't have anything for him. I think about what he just said, and I think of my Dad. I nod, but don't reply.
Johnny: Afterwards he came back here and got on at the smelter over in Anaconda. Retired when they shut down. He didn't last long after that."
Me: "That had to be tough work."
Johnny: "Damn right it was. Mamma says it killed him."
This isn't the most uplifting conversation topic. Time to change course.
Me: "Ah...I should probably get moving. I need to put some miles behind me before dark."
Johnny: "Which direction are you heading from Butte?"
Me: "West, toward Seattle. Hopefully Spokane by this evening."
Johnny: "Anaconda is 30 miles north and west of here. You should stop and see the old smelter stack. It's taller than the Washington Monument. Not that I've been to Washington, but they say it's taller. Quite a sight."
Me: "Thanks, maybe I'll do that."
Johnny: "Anything else around here you wanted to see? I know the town. I could show you. Save you time."
He's talking, his mood seems to be improving, and he's put an offer on the table. So far, so good. I have an idea. I'll accept his offer and take him for a ride in The Turtle. A little FJ40 magic always lifts the spirits, right? There actually was something in the tourist brochure that I wanted to see, Our Lady of The Rockies, a statue of the Virgin Mary perched on the Continental Divide overlooking Butte. It's claimed to be the second tallest monument in North America, a few feet behind the Statue of Liberty. I tell Johnny that I'd like to see it. He shakes his head. "No, man. You can't get there. It's a private road and they make you take a bus up to the statue. Takes a couple of hours. The road's closed this time of year anyway. You can see the statue from the road. That's what most people do. I got a better idea. I'll take you up to Granite Mountain overlook in Walkerville. It's not far. You can see everything for miles from up there. Probably nobody there this time of day, and it's free."
I say "You're the guide. Let's do it." I pay the tab, a cheap eight bucks, Johnny grabs his bag of ham and biscuits, and we're out the door and onto the sidewalk. I tell him that I'm parked around the corner near Gamers. He follows, and as we near The Turtle from behind, he pulls up short, stops in his tracks.
Johnny: "What is that? Is that an old Army Jeep?"
Me: "Nope. It's an old Land Cruiser."
Johnny: "I won't ride in a Jeep."
Me: "Not a Jeep. It's a Toyota."
Johnny: "Well...then I guess that's all right. Never mind."
There has to be a story here, but I'm not asking. Johnny has difficulty climbing into the lifted truck. His first attempt is a fail. I reach across the cab and offer a hand. He looks embarrassed, says he just slipped, and waves me off. I tell him to try grabbing the hand grip on the roll cage and pulling himself up. He takes it with both hands, tugs, and that does it. He tells me to circle back to Main Street, and turn left. Main will take us out of town and up the mountain to Walkerville, to the overlook. I make him buckle up, drive around the block, and up the mountain we go. I sure hope this was a good idea.
yep, to be continued....
