Smalltown, Wyoming

In most towns in Wyoming, the elevation is greater than the population.  When I drive out of Yellowstone I see small towns with names like Tensleep or Wapiti that house less than three hundred people.  Wyoming is one of the largest states but it is the least populated.  In order to have fun here you have to get creative and you change your definition of an eventful night.

Erin and I start driving the three-hour journey to Cody to get a Wyoming license plate.  We both work early on Friday and have to rush out of Yellowstone so we can reach the DMV before it closes at five.  We only have the weekends off, so we only have one shot at securing a plate before our temporary tags expire.  We take the east entrance beyond the lake and speed down two lane roads out of the mountains and between the redrock canyons and into the prairies baking under the summer heat that has largely eluded us in Yellowstone. 

The mile marker signs start off high but you know when you are about to enter a city.  Usually there are no exits to Wyoming towns; the highway cuts right through the main street.  Erin turns on the GPS when we reach Cody so we can find the DMV, but the iPhone tells us nothing useful.  We see a sign that says Driver’s License and an arrow pointing right, so we follow those directions and enter the building and ask a lady behind a desk if we can get a license plate here, but she tells us to go to the courthouse and tells us which streets to take.  It is almost four o’clock so we run to the car and drive too quickly down narrow lanes until we reach the courthouse.

We stand in line and another lady tells us we need to get a VIN inspection at the police station.  She says they’re quick about those but we better hurry, so we do.  I get out of the car and run toward the station. 

“Do you think you should be running toward a police station?” Erin asks me.

“It’s better than running away from it,” I say and open the door.

Two black signs with white lettering give me instructions.  If I need to meet with an inmate, I pick up the phone on the right.  If I need a VIN inspection, I pick up the phone on the left.  I pick up the phone on the left and a man asks me for my information.  I am still breathing hard from the sprint.  He says he needs a certain number on my registration and I unfold the piece of paper and the voice says, “That’s it right there,” and I jump because I don’t realize he can see me from behind the tinted glass behind me. 

I hand him my registration through a small gap in the glass that has opened up, and an older man emerges from a side door and walks with me quickly out to the car.  He checks some number near the dash and signs a paper and says, “There ya go,” and we drive slowly out of the police station parking lot and then step on the gas until we reach the courthouse for the second time.  The rest is just a matter of waiting in line and paying a tax that is more expensive than I originally thought it would be.  I get the license plate with five minutes to spare.  Now the car is legal. 

Then we walk through the shops on the main street.  We browse through stores filled with Native American pottery, shiny rocks, Yellowstone souvenirs, and Old West knickknacks.  Erin is searching for something to buy her parents and she has more patience inside stores than I do because I realize that nearly every small town in the west has the same set of shops.

 

In Custer, South Dakota there are shops filled with arrowheads, turquoise jewelry, and cowboy boots.  In Jackson, Wyoming, you can buy the same junk.  Cody is no different.  Every small town capitalizes off the wild days of the past when outlaws shot through saloon doors and hunters slayed buffalo.  But now what are we creating that is worth commemorating?  Will there be gift shops honoring the great gift shops of the past?  Statues immortalizing shoppers?

There are three things to do in Cody, Wyoming:  shop, visit the Buffalo Bill Center of the West, and go to a rodeo.  There’s one every night in the summer, and the town claims to be the rodeo capital of the world.  We take our seats at the topmost bleacher so we can rest our backs against the chain-link fence.  The light in the air is getting grayer as the sun descends behind the nearby peaks.  Cowboys start off by roping calves, hogtying their legs together and then watching them squirm for a few seconds like a tired fish gasping in the waterless air. 

I buy a medium Pepsi that is worth less than two dollars and served by a boy that looks to be twelve years old.  Up in the stands, Erin takes pictures of the crimson sunset as the female riders begin the barrel races.  You can tell right out of the gates who is skilled by the efficiency of their movement.  The horses gallop with long strides toward the first corner where they stop and turn agilely and race to the next barrel.  After the last turn, the horses turn on their jets, and the swift riders barely jostle in the saddle. 

The barrel races are graceful and impressive, but the bronco and bullriding is gritty and over too quickly to be considered entertaining.  The animals kick their back legs because there is a belt wrapped tightly around their gonads.  Broncos and bulls are not trying to buck the rider; they are trying to rid themselves of the pain.  Some men hang on for a few seconds and only a few last until the bell rings after eight.  For those who hold on, the judges give them a score in the seventies, but I don’t understand the categories under consideration.  How does one stylishly hold onto a rampaging bull?  You either fall off or you don’t.  I don’t see how anyone could do it better than anyone by a matter of degrees, but then again I don’t understand the sport; I am more so perplexed by this custom that has risen from restlessness on ranches.

There is a comedian dressed like a clown who is carrying a broom and making jokes about Democrats and his wife.  He says that when he was looking at his marriage license he mentioned to his wife there wasn’t an expiration date.  The announcer in the booth keeps saying things like, “Let’s not let him leave empty handed,” after a rider is disqualified from falling off a bull or failing to rope a calf’s leg.  Cowboys travel from rodeo to rodeo on their own dime, and they get busted up each night only to sit in a truck and drive through the darkness until they reach the next corral where they attempt to stay on the bull while another small town watches from the stands. 

The rodeo ends as the moon rises, and we shuffle out to the car.  All the hotels in Cody are booked because of the 75^th Anniversary of the motorcycle rally in Sturgis, South Dakota.  Bikes are parked everywhere along the main street, and all the neon motel signs glow with NO VACANCY.  When I search for hotels on GoogleMaps, I find a room for sixty bucks in a dingy motel in a nearby town called Meeteetse.  To round out this road trip, I want the all-American motel experience:  a room complete with tacky art hanging on faux wooden walls, dirty shower curtains, mattresses with cigarette burns, and a box TV with seven channels and a broken remote.  So we set out for the thirty minute drive through the barren, rolling hills until we reach a town that consists of a motel, a gas station, two restaurants, and three hundred people.

We check into the motel with a nice lady who runs the place with her husband who has a ranch nearby.  The room has everything that I want except the mattress merely has stains instead of cigarette burns, and the remote actually works.  After settling in, we decide to drive around.  I spot an elementary school and wonder if there are enough people to fill it.  Then I drive up a gravelly hill to a cemetery which makes me wonder how many people used to live here.  On the way back to the motel, we stop at one of the restaurants which are located side by side.  When I step out of the car, I detect a hissing noise and see Erin inspecting the rear tire on the driver’s side.  There is a nail poking out of it.  She jimmies the nail so the air no longer hisses, and we step inside the restaurant and order a pizza from a bartender smoking a cigarette in one hand and pouring foamy beers with the other.

We tell her about our recent automobile troubles and ask her if there is a mechanic in town.  She says his shop is just up the road, but it’s closed now and, this being a Mormon town, is most likely closed tomorrow, which is Sunday.  A burly man who is friendly with the bartender asks us if we’re driving a motorcycle, and we say no, and he offers to take a look at the tire.  He steps outside and notices there’s a nail embedded into the rubber and diagnoses what we’ve already deduced:  the tire is punctured.  

A skinny woman who looks like she could be the bartender’s sister exits the bar and laughs at herself for forgetting where she parked.  Erin and I reenter the bar and another man offers to call the mechanic but the mechanic doesn’t answer.  Then the bartender realizes the mechanic plays in a band, and there is a wedding tonight in the oil fields, so he’s either out late or sleeping by now.

A chubby man with holes in his shirt and black oil grease on his hands walks into the bar, and I think this could be our man until he orders a bottle of fireball whiskey and 24 pack of Rolling Rock.  The bartender says, “You’re not going to get shitfaced and puke on the sidewalk again, are you?” And the man says he’s going to party in the woods, where nobody will be inconvenienced by his drunkenness.  He leaves and an old man with a white mustache finishes his soda and follows him.  When he opens the door, he asks himself out loud where he parked his car.  

  

I wonder what kind of condition a person must be in to forget where you’ve parked your car in a town that consists of one street with a commercial district spanning a mere 500 yards.                 

I think of the flat tire leaking air outside and wonder if this is how people get stuck in small towns like Meeteetse.  Like Lightning McQueen in Cars, the road won’t let me escape.  I ask the bartender what else there is to do in Wyoming.  She says she doesn’t know Casper, but there isn’t shit to do in Cheyenne.  There are no clubs worthy of her time, and I realize our definitions of fun differ greatly.  How do you occupy yourself in a small town without obliterating yourself with alcohol or work?

 

Everyone here knows each other by name, and everyone knows everyone’s business.  There are no secrets here, and I suspect our flat tire will be the biggest piece of local news all week.  The bartender delivers our pizza, and we thank her for all her efforts in trying to contact the mechanic.  She gives us her phone number and says to call us tomorrow if we need any help.  We drive to the mechanic’s garage and I place a piece of duct tape over the nail, so we can easily find the hole tomorrow.  We walk back to the motel in the dark. 

After a night’s rest, we tell the owner of our troubles and our inability to leave by checkout time, and she offers to drive us up to the mechanic and help us change our tire.  We tell her it’s no trouble; we can walk.  But she says she has errands to run anyways. I’m thankful for her help and meanwhile I wonder what errands you could possibly run here that couldn’t be completed on foot. 

We borrow a jack from the mechanic, and Erin props the car up while I unscrew the lugnuts and switch the flat for the spare.  We thank the motel lady and she drives away to attend to her errands.  If we had gotten stuck like this in a big town and stayed at the Marriott, the concierge would’ve given us a fake smile and called Triple AAA and then charged us for an extra night and then we’d have to pay for the car to be towed.  Although the motel mattress had stains and the bartender was unprofessional, Meeteetse possessed an undeniable charm that comes only in unpolished places not quite large enough to be mentioned on a map.

White Cliffs and Red Men

Distances between civilizations are so vast in the West a driver needs to be mindful of how much gas is in the tank.  Erin and I are driving on the highway through the scrubland of southern Montana.  Yellow fields of dried grasses undulate up and over the bumpy moraines.  Aside from an advertisement for fireworks and oil rigs dipping their beaks into the dirt, there is nothing around for at least a hundred miles until we reach the battlefield of Little Big Horn where Custer made his last stand against the Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes. 

There are certain names and events from history that we can name but don’t remember why they should be so well-known.  I had heard of General Custer and his famous last stand, but I didn’t know why anybody was fighting, especially over such a hot, desolate patch of land that seems habitable, but unbearable.  Rows of tombstones are embedded into the hillside where Custer and many others died.  It is a shame that he is the one who is remembered, especially considering he lost the battle. 

The Native Americans were being forced to settle into a reservation like penned animals.  The tribes were a nomadic people who believed the land was tame and bountiful, so they broke the white man’s rules and fought one final war for their freedom to roam the land as they have done for so long. 

We may be forced to memorize Custer’s name in our history classes, but the Crow Indians living on the nearby reservation are forced to remember how close they were to retaining their lifestyle.  The battlefield is only a few miles away from a reservation that consists largely of ramshackle trailers and pick-up trucks.  I reasoned that people who used to live in teepees wouldn’t mind living in such small houses, but nevertheless the neighborhood didn’t seem a place I wanted to move to.

The dominance of white history over Native American history is probably never as prevalent as it is in South Dakota.  In the small town of Keystone, a sculptor named Gutzon Borglum carved the faces of four presidents onto a cliffside.  Most people learn about Mount Rushmore before they realize it’s in South Dakota.  Before Borglum started carving, I doubt there was much reason to visit the state as a tourist, and I still don’t know why he chose to carve the memorial in such a remote place.

Mount Rushmore is one of those places Americans feel impelled to visit to merely say they’ve visited.  We have all seen pictures and know what to expect before paying our entry fee.  Many people remark that the sculpture is smaller than they thought it would be, but that is only because the cliffs are far away from the central viewing area.  The memorial is undoubtedly a fine piece of art well worth a visit.  I was mostly surprised by the casual atmosphere within the National Monument.  I did not have to go through security, and nobody stopped me when I stepped off the paved trail to climb an adjacent cliff to get closer to the presidents’ faces.

 

After browsing through the gift shop in which every piece of memorabilia looked the same but made with different material (a cotton T-shirt or plastic magnet), we drove to the Crazy Horse statue outside of Custer, South Dakota.  I had read about the statue and was curious to visit such a large monument that not many people know about.  The fee to get inside is twenty dollars per person, but the money helps the family continue sculpting, as they refuse any state or national support. 

The sculptor, Korczak, was an assistant on Mount Rushmore.  Once that project was completed, he was approached by a chief who asked him to build him a memorial for his people.  The chief wanted the white man to know that the red man has heroes, too.  In the 1940s, Korczak started the project, which he would soon spend his entire life building.  At the start, he lived in a small tent and carried his equipment up rickety stairs.  His generator would often quit on him, and he would have to walk all the way down the massive staircase and back up again only to have the machine quit again. 

Korczak and his wife had ten children, and when they grew up they too devoted their lives to the completion of their father’s dream.

The family planned to create the world’s largest sculpture along with a museum and a university all designed for the commemoration and benefit of Native Americans.  Since so much had been taken from the tribes, Korczak felt assured he was devoting his life to a worthy cause that could help heal wounds and design better futures for the Native Americans.

The majority of the cliff was carved by dynamite.  The workers could blast a piece of rock so accurately that they could aim the explosive range within a few inches.  It took nearly forty years just to remove enough rock to even glimpse the overall shape of the memorial.  A miniature sculpture reveals Crazy Horse sitting atop his horse with his arm pointing toward the distance.  This monument’s location, unlike Mount Rushmore, makes sense because Crazy Horse is pointing toward the Black Hills, where his people have lived and died.  Unfortunately, Korczak died in the 1980s well before the face of Crazy Horse was completed, but he finished the designs, which are still being used today. 

The face is now finished, and the arm that stretches toward his people’s land is nearly complete.  Crazy Horse’s head is as large as Mount Rushmore, but it is difficult to conceive the colossal size of this monument because you can’t get very close to it unless you take a bus tour to the bottom of the cliff.  You cannot walk up to it because there are construction vehicles lying around.  The memorial is still in progress and will be for quite some time.  The site, although unfinished, is a more humbling experience than Mount Rushmore, only a few miles up the road. 

A single family has been working on this for over seventy years by their own means for a people whose monuments are often overshadowed by the white man’s.  It is inspiring to know that there are people out there who won’t give up for what they believe in, even if it means carving a rock they won’t see finished in their lifetime.  And the monument may not even be complete within my life either, and I’m not very old yet.  This is the first time I have ever considered my non-existent grandchildren.  Crazy Horse may be finished by then.

After the sun sets and the sky turns black, there is a laser show projected on the unfinished monument.  I assume this will tell the tale of Crazy Horse and at least mention the Battle of Little Bighorn, but there is no such thing.  Wiry pictures of Native Americans glow against the rock while a voice from a speaker talks in generalities about what gifts the Native Americans introduced to the whites.  I saw pictures of corn, moccasins, and roaming bison running in place.

Someone gets into their truck, turns on the engine and beams their lights into my eyes.  I mutter an expletive at him and make a remark about being disrespectful, but after a few more minutes of this haphazardly thrown-together, glorified PowerPoint presentation, I don’t blame the man for leaving early.  The laser show is bizarre, an obvious gimmick to keep people around long enough to justify the expensive entry fee. 

I want to learn more about Crazy Horse and this behemoth of a project.  I am inspired by the sculptor’s story and the legacy his family is carrying, but this laser show seems contrary to the family’s dream of ensuring that the white man know the red man’s heroes.  I drive away, disappointed in the childish light show, thinking that this place could have so much more potential, but like many of the reservations it is trying to represent, is in need of funds but doesn’t want any handouts.  At the least, they need a storyteller so that people can recall a name and know why it’s worth remembering.

Mormon Country

Once Erin and I reached Salt Lake City, I park in a garage next to a Nordstrom’s and we check into a room at the Marriott.  Across the street from the hotel is Temple Square, the mecca for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, also known as the Mormons.  

In 1847 Brigham Young led his fellow people to an isolated spot in the desert and decided to build a Kingdom of God on Earth.  He flocked to the West to avoid the violence that was being afflicted against the followers of this new faith.  Joseph Smith, the founder, was killed by a mob.  Religious intolerance was one of the reasons many Europeans flocked to America in the first place.  The flight of the Mormons is further proof that people seem to get angry when beliefs about deities don’t align.

Within days of arriving in Salt Lake City, Brigham Young started building the temple, which is now a giant edifice resembling Cinderella’s castle.  Today there are several buildings next to the temple which makes the grounds seem like a campus.  There is a church, a skyscraper where the business is conducted, restaurants, a visitor center which contains a miniature model of the temple, and a genealogy research center.  I walk toward the Family Search Center and recognize the icon.  I pull out my wallet and there is a business card with the exact same company on it. 

When I was walking in Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii, I noticed a giant building with a golden statue on top of a hill.  I assumed it was a church of some type, so I decided to have a look at the interior.  I tugged on the door but it was locked.  A few men wearing suits and a woman wearing a business-like dress opened the door and asked if they could help me.  I told them I was just curious about this building and wanted to take a look at the inside.  They told me in order to go inside the temple I had to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I had to be in good standing for at least a year before I could step foot inside the temple.  I thought this was very bizarre to cut off public access when so many religious buildings encouraged tourists to appreciate the artwork and even attend services. 

I thanked them for explaining and proceeded down the hill toward the cruise ship.  On my way I ran into an older couple who asked me if I was a member of the church.  I said I wasn’t.  I wanted to see inside that building, but apparently access is very exclusive.  The couple explained they were Mormons from Utah and came to the islands to see the temple.  When they asked me what I was doing in Hawaii, I explained my job on the cruise ship, and they said they were staying there this week.  I invited them to sit in my section at the restaurant where I worked.  During dinner that night, they spoke of their lives in Utah, the dry summers and snowy winters, and the man gave me his business card.  He told me he researches ancestries to see where individual families have originated.

In Salt Lake City I am holding the Family Search business card.  I open the doors and a white haired old man greets me from the front desk and asks me if I have any questions.  I ask him about the type of work they do here, and he tells me they have connected relatives from the present day to people living a thousand years ago. 

I want to press him more about this religion, which, to me, seems like the biggest hoax since Santa Claus.  I want to know how so many people have been so rapturously persuaded to live this way.  The old man tells me the significance of Pioneer Day, which is celebrated on July 24^th and is much like the American Independence Day.  The holiday commemorates the day Brigham Young reached Utah and began to complete his vision of establishing a channel between earth and heaven. 

The Mormons believe that families are eternally linked, and they will not hesitate to tell you this.  They so strongly believe in the impermanence of familial bonds in the same way people are relieved to know they have secured reservations in a busy restaurant.  Sometimes I wish I had the imagination or faith o whatever it takes to believe in such a warm, fuzzy thought, but I am too rational.  I am amazed at how many people so fervently cling to these principles; there seems to be no casual Mormon in Salt Lake City.  Everyone is selling Mormonism, and I want to play the role of seemingly interested customer who is merely browsing with no intent to buy.

The building is closing in a few minutes, so I take advantage of their luxurious restrooms and then take the elevator up to the top floor to see the temple from above.  On the top floor there is a restaurant packed with guests and bustling waitresses.  While I look out the window at the magnificent castle-like structure, I wonder if you have to be Mormon to work in the restaurant, and then I wonder if Mormons are good tippers. 

I am beginning to get the impression that every Mormon in Salt Lake City is a fanatic, and I want to know if there is anyone out there half-assing this thing.  I see so many young women wearing name tags saying things like, “My mission trip changed my life.”  I volunteered to teach English in Ghana, a small country in West Africa, and while I was there I saw two young men wearing white shirts and black ties riding bicycles through the village of Kasoa.  They were Mormons.

I don’t believe it’s right to impose a foreign religion onto people who barely comprehend English.  I’ve seen cases of missionaries persuading with fear of damnation.  If you don’t accept Jesus Christ as your only savior then you are going to burn in hell for eternity.  African communities have had their own religious beliefs long before the white man introduced European languages and the Bible.  Now those traditions are fading so that blacks can worship a white god.    

I have more questions about this religion, and in the lobby I find a woman who is more than eager to share her story and provide me with answers.  She shakes my hand and introduces herself.  I ask her if you have to go on a mission to become a Mormon, and who pays for these trips?  She tells me that a mission is not required to be a member, but if one wishes to embark on a mission he or she must pay for the trip.  She went to Dallas after her husband passed away.  She says she was nervous and out of her comfort zone, especially considering that she was living with stranger, who was also on his mission trip.

What about this exclusionary business with the temples?  The woman says that temples are designated as sacred sites where Mormons can find connection with god.  There is a buffer period after the temple is constructed when the public can visit, but once some sort of ritual is performed it is members only from that point forward.  She then tells me that many major players of the church live and work in the large business center, where most of the accounting is done. 

I have seen the miniature replica of the temple, and the interior is extremely luxurious.  There are expensive chandeliers and an ornate bath used for baptisms of the dead.  Inside the lobby in which I am standing hangs a gaudy chandelier surrounded by marble columns.  

The Mormons preach frugality and humility, yet their temples resemble a king’s palace filled with gold.  She leads me to a simple worshipping area, and there I ask her if the restaurants are owned by the church.

“I have never seen a restaurant inside a church before,” I say. “Do you have to be Mormon to work there?”

She says she doesn’t know, and I try to keep my tone neutral rather than mocking, which is difficult.  I have been to the Vatican and seen the Sistine Chapel, which was full of tourists gawking at Michelangelo’s work.  But in Temple Square in Salt Lake City, I get more of a Disney World vibe.  Yes, the Mormons are spreading the word about their religion, but they are also dressing it up with gaudy decorations and teasing the public by closing their temple doors. 

The woman keeps reminding me that Mormons still accept Jesus Christ as their only savior.  I don’t know why she keeps insisting on this because I never express any doubt regarding her messiah, but I accept this as an odd habit of hers. 

“Many people think we worship Mormon, or the angel Moroni, who spoke to Joseph Smith,” she says and then goes on to explain the origins of the Book of Mormon.  She says that this angel visited earth and transcribed the word of God onto golden plates and then hid those plates in the mountains.  She is very confident that the angel visited several places in North America, and she expresses great excitement when mentioning the golden plates.

“Where are the plates now?” I ask.  “Do you have them stored in the temple?”

“We don’t know where they are,” she says, defeated.

 

She gives me a look that says, I know this is hard to believe, but you’ll just have to trust me on this.  But I don’t budge.  This is beginning to seem more and more like a fairy tale.  I am reminded of Christmas mornings as a child when I found an empty glass of milk and a plate of cookie crumbs.  The evidence is gone. 

“But we believe that families are eternal.  My husband passed away, and that’s a nice thing to believe in,” she says.

I agree that it is very comforting, and I genuinely feel sympathetic toward the woman.  I admire the Mormons for explaining their religion rather than pushing it onto people (with the exception of their mission trips).  Never once did she ask me if I was interested in joining the church.  She never handed me any pamphlets, and she was responsive to all of my questions.  Although I don’t believe what the Mormons believe, I am interested in their role in developing the American West.  Some trekked toward the Rocky Mountains to dig for gold.  Ranchers fenced in the prairies so their cattle could graze while others fled the East for an open land so they could feel closer to their god.  

Idaho

Once you get out of the gaudy tourist town of West Yellowstone and beyond the Targhee National Forest, you can drive 80 miles per hour in Idaho and still be legal.  Across the gas station in Island Park, flyfishermen flick their rods back and forth like novice wizards unable to cast spells from their wands.  The sun is dipping below the mountains, and the sky turns a different color every time I photograph it.  At first I can still see the light blue of the sky while the clouds turn from bright yellow to orange and finally to pink.  The horizon looks painted in flick-of-the-wrist stripes, and the golden hour seems to last longer than sixty minutes.  Prior to this night, my only association with Idaho is potatoes, but that’s only because I didn’t know I could see a beautiful sunset in Idaho.

Erin and I reach Idaho Falls after the sun finally sets.  I don’t have the GPS on because I don’t have a destination until we pass a glowing neon sign that says Scotty’s Hamburgers.  There is a large awning rimmed with pink light with a few cars parked underneath.  I stop the car and investigate.  At a picnic table under the awning a family of four is eating thin cheeseburgers and desperate-looking tater tots.  I consult Erin, and she says we should risk it.  This late at night, it is either this or Wendy’s.  I reason that this little joint is very appropriate for such far-away places like Idaho Falls.  

We open the glass door and walk up to the counter and order two burgers with fries and milkshakes.  American flags hang below the menu.  Pictures of classic cars cover the walls.  I’m glad we didn’t choose Wendy’s because we could have that experience anywhere.

Erin walks around outside to take pictures of the building while I wait for our food.  Two young men enter the restaurant.  They are wearing shorts, and one of the men is wearing a Colorado Rockies hat.  I think about asking them if they are from around here, and if they are what it is like to grow up in Idaho, but I decide to wait quietly instead.  At first I think to myself that people are born here on accident, and then they move somewhere else.  I grew up in a place like this.  Your hometown is out of your control, and if you don’t like it you complain until you have enough money to move somewhere you don’t complain about as much. 

Erin comes back inside and tells me she heard three gunshots nearby.  I tell her there is nothing to worry about.  It was probably somebody practicing on a target in his backyard.  I hear no sirens and nobody else seems to be panicking, so we sit outside despite the mild chill in the air.  The fries are salty, and I enjoy them even more because I know they are grown locally.  The burger is delicious, and for some reason I don’t mind the combination of jalapenos from my burger and huckleberries and chocolate from my milkshake.  I feel like a character from American Graffiti, with no plans but to drive around the town in search of a reason to stay.  I remember thinking that my hometown was lame because it never seemed to move beyond the height of the railroad years, but now being stuck in the past doesn’t seem like such a bad place to be.

 

The workers are taking out the trash and turning off the music and the lights, so we get back in the car and drive to the Walmart where I park far away from the store and next to an island with a tree.  We decide to sleep in the car for the night rather than waste money on a hotel.  We line the backseat with blankets and stuffed duffel bags and extra pillows on the floor to fill in the gap.  I use the side mirror to take out my contacts, and I brush my teeth and spit into the bushes. I crack open a window so we won’t suffocate from our own breath.

 

When I wake up seven hours later, my knees are stiff from remaining bent all night, but I walk off the pain inside the store.  I buy two raspberry yogurts and a breakfast sandwich from the Subway inside.  I wonder how long someone could live inside Walmart and the parking lot before being noticed.  Nobody bothered me during the night.  I saw an RV with its shades closed, and a van nearby that had curtains.  They are still there in the morning. 

After breakfast, I brush my teeth and spit into the bushes again.  My hair is ruffled from having slept in a car.  Two homeless people pass me and give me an understanding nod before finding a spot to hoist their cardboard sign that describes their situation in five words or less.

“They think I’m one of them,” I say to Erin, and we drive to downtown Idaho Falls before we can dwell on this too much.

 

Main Street is full of empty buildings and a movie theater playing films that were released a month ago in major cities.  We stop in an antique store with a brown carpet that reminds me of my grandma’s house, and then Erin browses through a few jewelry stores.  An older woman greets us and tells us everything is locally made.  The pieces she designed herself are offered at a discount.  Erin walks to the back of the store and the old woman follows her around and asks questions like where are we from and she says things like most people from Idaho Falls go to Yellowstone but not many come this way to Idaho Falls. 

“A Japanese lady came in the store last week and offered me twenty five dollars for a seventy five dollar piece,” the old woman says.  “I said that’s not how this works.  I’m willing to negotiate, but not like that.  But if you’re local, I’ll make you a deal.”

Erin peruses the store and fights against the guilt to buy something just to please the old woman.  I think the jewels are nice, but her pieces are too gaudy, the earrings too dangly and big.  Erin resists even the urge to buy something cheap from a bargain bin, and we thank the old woman and she tells us to enjoy our stay.

Idaho is the Gem State which accounts for all the stores selling prettified rocks that people somehow got into the habit of wearing on their fingers and faces.  And the reason they call the city Idaho Falls is because there’s a manmade dam on the Snake River that diverts the river laterally.  Inside the riverside park people are stretching in yoga poses as volunteers clean the place.  Erin buys a bag of kettle corn at the farmer’s market, and we walk across the lily pads of the Japanese garden until we’ve seen enough to decide we like this little town more than we expected to.