Benson
1.27.06
Heading to Benson, AZ.
Our carpool stopped at a hotel in Chandler to pick up the last person. She put her stuff in the rear of the vehicle, got in, picking up the driver's purse, asking:
"A* where should I put this?"
And she answered, "Just stick it wherever it fits." Ipsisima verba.
In a rash moment of wisdom, I looked out the side window without so much as a stifled chuckle.
Years of playing "keep" in soccer helped me develop amazingly fast reflexes. I also spent much of my childhood free and alone time (a large chunk of time there) working to develop reflexes by doing a variety of "training" activities. So, I can block, catch, etc. when an unexpected object(s) come my way. It works best if I'm relaxed and aware, not expecting anything. But there is one reflex that developed as I moved into adulthood. I'm lightning quick at exposing, laughing at, etc, double entendre. I'm rather certain that part of it has to do with the way my brain processes words. That was a nice way of saying I'm a thinking version of Beavis and Butthead. While it's often good for a chuckle, it also has its down sides. I think Jen found it to be one of my more irksome qualities. At times, I'm not too happy with it myself. So, for once, I was able to keep my mouth shut and I don't regret it at all.
Heading to Benson on a work related trip. I was appointed to a state wide committee on trails, requiring that I attend a meeting once a quarter. At least one of these meetings will be held outside of the Phoenix area. I agreed to the appointment because I know that there are at least two meetings outside the Phoenix area and that it would mean a paid trip to various locales. Quite often, a free event happens the day before the meeting if it is on a Saturday. The event for this particular meeting was a free tour of Kartchner Caverns. The caverns are some rather magnificent examples of "living caves." Needless to say, I decided that getting time and a half for two days plus a tour of the caverns made the trip a "must do." I even arranged a ride with the State employee that serves as a liaison to the committee. No driving!
Benson. What is there to say about it? It may very well have been a thriving town at one point. Now, with its convenient location between Tucson and New Mexico, it's a haven for poorly decorated chain motels and truck stops with horrible coffee. As far as I can tell, it's populated by people that are in a mad struggle be anywhere but Benson, employees of the state park, and people firmly planted in Benson. Lots of chicken-in-a-biscuit country fried flag waving one ton pickup driving love-it-or-leave-it kind of folk. Yes, I stand guilty of snap judgments and finger pointing. Fuck you all the same, though.
The drive ends at the entrance to our two-bit flea-bag motel. The clerk at the front desk greets us with the perfunctory "How are you?" Answers range from "great" to "backwards." One of our party reflexively fires back a "How are you?" Not being used to such courtesy, the clerk is momentarily stunned but quickly remembers where he is and in the stilted monotone of a wage slave at work since dark thirty in the morning, "I am good. Doing real good."." I see. Apparently, it's two minutes before the end of shift and his replacement doesn't want to start helping, but does so any how. I point out that they are charging me too much for my room and then ask:
"Can you give me directions to a good place to get into a bar fight?"
Clerk #1: "Huh, what?"
Me: "Are there any places good for getting my ass kicked in a bar fight? It's really the best way get to know a town."
Clerk #1: {face blank.}
Clerk #2: "Actually, yes there are a few places that are great for getting into fights."
Clerk #1: {half asleep on his feet.}
Me: "Are they downtown or what?"
Clerk #2: "Well, depends. Do you also want to be dropped off in the desert after they are done with kicking your ass?"
Clerk #1: {blinks}
Me: "It won't cost extra, will it?"
Clerk #2: "No, not at all. Though you may have to work to piss them off enough to get them to hit you."
Me: "Hmmm. I guess I should have re-painted my toenails."
Clerk #2: "That would do it."
Me: "Especially when I order a Shirley Temple."
Guy from carpool: "What kind of bar are you looking for?" Clerk #1:" ." [sic]
The cave was amazing. So amazing that after 10 minutes in there, I felt like we should all just walk out and close the doors, leave it to the bats. Near the end of the tour, I asked if all the lights could be shut off and all talking cease, so that we could truly experience the cave. The answer was no, for some rather idiotic reason. The most important question was saved until we were out of the cave, waiting for the little electric shuttle to pick us up. That question was, "Where can we find a good mexican restaurant in Benson?" The answer, "In Benson? Ha, there is no such thing!" My gut whines in futile protest.
Back to Plan A; eating at a place called "Reb's." We filed in through the tiny two door vestibule and finding the waiting space not much bigger, we stood in a knot, looking the place over. Poorly lit, crawling with bodaggots, the walls covered with John Birch Society tracts, polemics hurled in the general direction of the "govmint," equating the health warnings on cigarette packs to Big Brother, and of course the stock "if you don't like it, shut the hell up" sign, regarding both the food and the service. One feature which I could appreciate was the coat rack. I took my Carhartt off, exposing my Che shirt, wondering if wearing something as recognizable as Carhartt jacket had kept me unnoticed. I think of inquiring about "Reb", but realizing that he might actually be present, I figured I wouldn't want to be introduced. I picture "G.W. Hayduke" standing up and loudly declaring, "Hi, my name's Hayduke and I'm a hippy." I wonder what my companions would make of me standing up and saying, "My name is Russell J. Cockburn and I'm a faggot." Impulse control is a good thing in this case, I decide.
The menu shows up and I quickly confirmed expected lack of vegetarian friendly times. But, a happy surprise, they have Mexican food. So I order a vanilla shake and two plates of enchiladas. I wasn't expecting enchiladas non pareil and that's certainly what I got. There should be a law against not warning the patron that the enchiladas are from a can. I imagine Reb's reaction to that one, a sputtering "goddamned big brother" sort of thing. In retrospect, asking them to stick the menu in the deep fryer would have produced a better meal. I have a feeling that they would have honored the request, too.
Back in my room now. Except for one light in the bathroom, it's dark so that I can sit in this chair and look out the window. I-10 is right here and I find myself wondering about the people in the cars I see. What conversations are they having right now? What goal has them hurtling through the night in their entropy machines, biting the steering wheel to keep road weary eyes open? Of course I can't know and it's highly likely that this moment is the only one in my allotment of space-time that will bring them so close to me. So I make up life stories to pass the time, occasionally interrupted by the plaintive notes of train horns coming from the mainline just across the road. When interrupted I feel that I should be listening to an old country song thinking about all the places I have yet to see. I do think about my failed marriage and my broken family, thinking about my kids going to sleep tonight without me there. I see myself huddled in the small opening at the end of a grain car or in the space between semi-trailer axles, blasted by 70 mph winds. I lean my head back, my eyes closed and look forward to being alone in the king sized bed.
It's time to clear my thoughts and go to sleep.