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Traders Joe clerk, looking to make himself distinctive, or perhaps following quirky new company policy:
“Would you like the receipt and a lollypop?”
I almost said “I am a grown man,” but I did not almost say “I am a grown ass man,” as that is a tiresome vulgarity. Whenever I see it I imagine the emphasis on the wrong syllable. “I am a grown ass-man.”
I did not want a lollypop, but I asked which flavors they had. One was pomegranate. So the next time I’m asked I’ll say “no, I am an ass-grown adult, unless you have pomegranate, and the clerk will be able to say “we do have pomegranate, sir,” and he will be pleased to produce it.
That was not the extent of the interactions. At Infinite Intoxicants I went to the line with my favorite clerk, who is from Kamchatka. We exchange the briefest of pleasantries in Russian. Years ago I asked her where she was from, she told me, and was amazed that I knew where it was. Didn’t have the heart to tell her that just about every guy from my age cohort knows it from a board game. That’s where we massed troops to invade North America. Anyway, when I got in line the fellow in front of me was excitedly pointing upwards with a big smile, and I had no idea what he was doing. I had my headphones on, listening to an account of the aftermath of the Battle of Agincourt (very bad, smelly) and when I asked the clerk what the devil he was pointing to, she indicated her station sign: it was unlit. Ah. I had barged into a line that was not operational. She said she would accommodate me anyway, and I said I would make certain no one made my error. When someone indeed tried to get her cart in this lane I made exaggerated weaving off gestures, pointed to the dark light, and said “You shall not pass!” This made the Kamchatkan giggle, and if you’ve never heard a dour Kamchatkan giggle, your life is missing a particularly unexpected sound.
“You want in plastic?” She said, still giggling.
“I want in plastic.”
It almost sounds like a lyric from a Gary Numan song.
Our weekly recap of a Wikipedia peregrination. Expect no conclusion or revelations, but if you've been with us since this started last year, you know . . . sometimes we learn interesting things.
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How do we get from here . . . |
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. . . to there? |
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It's not that long a journey. It treads on Main Street territory, but hey, it's Thursday.
For some reason I typed in “Beach” as the location in the newspapers.com search field, because my dad always spoke of Beach as a final destination. He wanted to retire there, sit in a chair and watch the sunset on the plains. This always struck me as strange and sad, since it’s an empty place. Google Street View reveals more of a downtown than I expected, but it’s not bustling.
Nice empty lot for dogs, though.
There were ads for merchants and grocers, the sense of a prosperous place in the Golden Valley, a town on the grow.
And then there’s this:
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The sarcasm makes you wonder - what’s the deal? |
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What happened, or rather, didn’t? |
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Wibaux is over in Montana, and a far piece from Beach, it seems. At least in 1911. It has the typical main street intersection, complete with boarded up second floors . . .
There’s a block of bars with fantastic signage:
We can see what the Stockman used to look like.
Town lore:
Theodore Roosevelt had a famous encounter with a bully at Nolan's Hotel in Wibaux (Mingusville, at the time) shortly after moving to the North Dakota Badlands in 1884.
Let’s hear TR’s account.
“It was late in the evening when I reached the place. I heard one or two shots in the bar-room as I came up, and I disliked going in. But there was nowhere else to go, and it was a cold night. Inside the room were several men, who, including the bartender, were wearing the kind of smile worn by men who are making believe to like what they don’t like. A shabby individual in a broad hat with a cocked gun in each hand was walking up and down the floor talking with strident profanity. He had evidently been shooting at the clock, which had two or three holes in its face.
…As soon as he saw me he hailed me as ‘Four Eyes,’ in reference to my spectacles, and said, ‘Four Eyes is going to treat.’ I joined in the laugh and got behind the stove and sat down, thinking to escape notice. He followed me, however, and though I tried to pass it off as a jest this merely made him more offensive, and he stood leaning over me, a gun in each hand, using very foul language… In response to his reiterated command that I should set up the drinks, I said, ‘Well, if I’ve got to, I’ve got to,’ and rose, looking past him.
As I rose, I struck quick and hard with my right just to one side of the point of his jaw, hitting with my left as I straightened out, and then again with my right. He fired the guns, but I do not know whether this was merely a convulsive action of his hands, or whether he was trying to shoot at me. When he went down he struck the corner of the bar with his head… if he had moved I was about to drop on my knees; but he was senseless. I took away his guns, and the other people in the room, who were now loud in their denunciation of him, hustled him out and put him in the shed.”
Those were the days.
As for who got the airport, it would be Glendive. I know I’m treading heavily on Main Street territory here, but we began with a shopkeeper, and that inevitably leads us to this Glendive sight:
And there will come a time when the number of people who know what that was will be fewer than those who do.
Oh, who am I kidding? We reached that point years ago.
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We’re in Wisconsin. One thousand souls, so we don’t expect much. Don't get me wrong - I love WI! But upper midwest small towns under a grand, you're not going to find world-class architecture and a thriving downtown. Or might you find just that?
It has the look of a school, but it can’t be.
