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.