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Mudcat Tavern On The Road
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Mudcat Tavern On The Road |
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Subject: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Peter T. Date: 16 Feb 02 - 09:43 AM A sad, mad heron in black leather comes out of the darkness, and walks up to the door, beating his head against the chrome. "What? What?" A muffled voice comes up from under what sounds like a woman pressed between a lumpy mattress and a layer of Good Housekeeping magazines. "Open up!!" The bird says. "I am not drunk enough." "Honey, who is that? I thought you had stopped giving out your home number." "You call this a home? This is the kind of place that gives trailer parks a bad name." For it was indeed such a park. The bird beat its head against the trailer more persistently. After a few minutes, the door opened, revealing the Mudcat bartender and a Baroque stockpile of alcohol in various stages of disrepute. "He's dead," said the bird, looking like the raven in the poem." "Oh, crap," said the bartender, "What will you have?" "The thing is," said the bird, "I think we need to get the hell out of here and hit the road, you know." The Mudcat bartender looked down at the bird, who, though long legged, was still only a bird. "You know, G.B. (the heron's nickname, short for his real name, Go Braugh, which he never used for obvious reasons), it is 3 in the morning, and, er, there is a lady present --" There was a sound as of a muffler descending a staircase behind him to punctuate this remark -- "and I can't just pick up and go like some outlaw. I have responsibilities." "Like what?" said G.B. There was a pause. The bartender looked at the unfolding vista of mobile chateaux extending to the horizon, and paused some more. "Oh hell," he said at last, "Come in. Underneath that case of 24 you'll find the mother of all jacks. We have to unhook the tanks, and I have to mollify, if that is the word I am groping for, the lady in the back room, and the 8-track needs fixing. Let's say 20 minutes. First, let's have a drink." They hoisted. "Waylon." said the bartender. "Waylon," sobbed G.B., enjoying wallowing around in grief. It was close to dawn when the Mudcat Tavern Trailer hit the Purgatory offramp and began driving like Hell. And it was 8 a.m. when they stopped to pick up their first passenger. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Lonesome EJ Date: 16 Feb 02 - 12:27 PM We were west-bound on the Wyoming Interstate 28 miles from a technical oasis of diesel exhaust and heavy pancakes when the drugs kicked in. I looked over at the Heron who was grinning and sipping from a can of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. He didn't know about the tremendous potency of the LSD we had both ingested, but soon enough the poor bastard would find out. - apologies to Hunter S |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Lonesome EJ Date: 16 Feb 02 - 12:39 PM Little America is the kind of mirage that gradually invades your vision like a distant fire on the horizon. It becomes more clearly defined as you approach at night...a beacon, a lighthouse on the vast Wyoming high desert, a steaming array of quonset huts lit by strings of incandescent lights like the bridge in Apocalypse Now. The Heron suddenly stood up in the seat and shouted "UFO!!" I popped open another beer for him and tried to speak in comforting tones, though I could have been speaking Swahili for all the cognizance the bird could muster. "We need food," I said, at last, and we pulled in and parked. It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to activate the gas pump, and anothert five to find the Heron's American Express card to pay for it. The restaurant was like an underwater chamber peopled by hirsute escapees from a primate study. The waitress who took our order must have been 65 years old and wore a two-foot high bouffant hairdo that looked to be made from an amalgam of fiber glass and cotton candy. I ordered eggs and hash browns for me and the heron. And coffee. Lots of strong black coffee. Truck-stop coffee that hits your tongue like a pistol shot and leaves your mouth shouting "medic!" Coffee you could spread on toast with a bread knife. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: katlaughing Date: 16 Feb 02 - 02:29 PM Suzy Q walked into Little America's dining room and glanced around. She was popping chewing gum, swinging her purse back and forth, one hand on her hip. "Miz Purdy? I'm gonna seat m'self," she hollered at the spun candy-haired older waitress. Miz Pearl Purdy answered back, "Yeah, honey, go right ahead. There's only you and those other two, this time a'day. I'll bring yer coffee, after I get their order going!" Suzy Q sauntered over to a booth, close to the salty dog and the weirdly clothed bird. If there'd been music playing it would've been the ta-da-da-dum-ta-da-da-dum of a stripper, the way she sashayed her hips, knowing they were watching. Any new blood in Shy-Anne and she knew it like a hound on a hot trail. As she slid into the booth next to them, she smiled at them and said "Howdy, strangers!" They were bedazzled...instead of the shallow, hennaed, pony-tailed frump they'd seen walk in, her smile and voice lit up the room and melted their hearts. She was a nightingale in a sparrow's body. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Peter T. Date: 16 Feb 02 - 05:40 PM "You see," said G.B., "it all triangulates, hell, quaterniates, from the "IF GOD HAD WANTED TO, HE COULD HAVE PUT THE TEN COMMANDMENTS ON AN ERSATZ PLASTICIZED WOODEN PLATE LIKE THIS" ersatz plasticized wooden plate on the wall, to the batty woman who just winked at you, a vision not unlike two spiders doing the fandango, it is all UNDER THEIR CONTROL. I know, I know, comrade, you are going to say that the psycho drowns in what the mystic swims in, but I am doing the 400 metre butterfly here, and breaking the world record, and it is the WINTER OLYMPICS, comrade!!!!" He looked down at his black T-shirt, which covered his scrawny body more out of compassion than aesthetics, which had the logo: "FAREWELL FAREWELL TOUR!!!" and the list of cities where Waylon was not going to be in the next three months. He looked back up, beak trembling. "The truth is, comrade, there is nothing more pathetic than a drunken bird, and that is what I am shooting for. Aristotelian pathos." The Mudcat bartender, who, in order to get his pouring papers, had taken six months of ornithology, and also had a minor in "A man walks into a bar followed by a kangaroo..." humour from Twizzle U., handed G.B. a book. "What is this?"said the heron. "This is the road map. The code. The way we know that in this universe subatomic particles spin counterclockwise, and clocks spin clockwise. It is called 'The Virginian', and it is by Owen Wister. I think that after you take this next set of pills -- goddamned radical sucking neocon anti-oxidants -- you will find it essential, especially the schoolmarm parts." "Oh," said the heron, intrigued. "And is that where we are going next?" "Billings!" said the roving Mudcat bartender. "Essential," said a salesman at the penultimate booth. "Essential. Unless you can keep up with your billings, you are nowhere." "Billings it is," said the heron.
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: katlaughing Date: 16 Feb 02 - 06:00 PM (What a "trip" man! You saying Owen didn't know he was in Wyoming???**BG**) |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: reggie miles Date: 16 Feb 02 - 08:02 PM It wasn't long after that they walked in. One of 'em would've been too many but here was a whole damn troop, four in all, parading themselves like some strange refugees a couple of years too late for the Haight. They were the bedraggled tribe of long haired, bearded hippie lookin' weirdos who had set up camp on the small patch of grass between the east bound off ramp and the mega-way. Hopin' to get a ride, they took turns standing thumb out before all those who rolled up to take advantage of this last chance refill site before heading across the vast deserted landscape the lay adhead. They carried with them few possesions, backpacks and assorted instruments, preferring to travel light as possible on their trek down to New Orleans to busk the crowds during Mardi Gras season. Still, their backs were bent from the weight of too many miles of walking and not enough rides. Three of them had guitars in cases as worn and tattered as the clothes they wore. There was a crazy looking washboard strapped to the outside of one backpack, all fixed up like something Spike jones might use. Another had a violin case stuffed inside his pack and a third, particularly lean, straggly, stringy haired, buck-toothed blonde hiked his washtub bass up higher on his shoulder as they all scanned the room looking for someplace to sit. Every head seemed to turn at once to gaze in disbelief at the sight. The boys moved across the room and settled at a table at the far end. The air conditioned interior made them forget momentarily the heat and discomfort outside. The waitress made her way directly to them and in lowered tones issued the directive. "We can't serve you.", she whispered. One of the group, adorned in a well patched vest and trousers, responded first by asking what the difficulty might be. Her only reply was, "You'll have to go elsewhere." Never having experienced the sting of prejudice at this level before one of the four sporting a derby interrupted, "What, our money isn't good here?" He was as much shocked by her statement as by the realization that for the first time in his life he was being treated like some kind of less than desirable element. The patched one quickly quelled the rising feeling of resentment at not being served and led the way back outside and up the hill to the off ramp. Time seemed to stand still there, and with each passing motorist it became more and more difficult to keep from giving in to feelings of despair. Would they get another ride and if so, when? How long had they even been there? Not one of them wore a watch or carried any kind of time piece. One thing was certain, they had been stuck there waiting longer than at any other location so far. They had hitched from Seattle all the way down the west coast and now, on their first leg east of LA, they were stalled. It was against all odds that they had even made it this far. After all how many people even pick up one hitch hiker these days, let alone four, ladden with back packs and instruments? They all seemed to handle the incident in the cafe that morning differently, but there was little disscusion between them about it. After a time each stood strangely mute along the off-ramp trying to deal with it in their own way. The only sounds were those of the wind rustling the tall grass and the occasional drivers speeding east or west along the asphalt that stretched endlessly straight in either direction as far as the eye could view. While it was true that the band made very little money in their attempts at busking, hence the need to hitch hike and sleep in the bushes on the side of the road at night, it was apparent, by the reception they received from the audiences they drew while playing, that they were never considered something to be reviled. Trying to maintain a positive attitude each of the four began to slip into something of a meditative state. Always, one stood waiting, peering into every approaching windsheild, then turning and watching for brake lights. It was only after staring long and silent at the grassy area next to the off-ramp that two of the four began to walk about exploring it, pausing here and there to pick some of the small wild blossoms that grew there. The area was dotted with the refuse often found along modern day super highways. Thinking perhaps that he could influence the cosmic odds stacked against them by doing something positive for the planet, one of the four began collecting the trash. Soon there was a large central pile all sorted neatly into proper recycling sub-catagories of paper, plastic, glass and metal. As the sun began to sink lower in the west the four stood together and began to sing. First a few words, "Standing on the road," then each adding a few more "All alone and blue." and then harmonizing, "What do I gotta do, to get a ride with you? What do I gotta do, do, do, do, to get a ride with you babe, to get a ride with you?" Several more verses came to them and they sang and harmonized like never before and then fell silent again. It was a song born partly out of their need but mostly out of their love for the life they had chose to lead. The sky grew darker still as twilight began to give way to night. Then, to their surprise, came the familiar tap on horn and they were off again. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Lonesome EJ Date: 16 Feb 02 - 09:57 PM Great stuff! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Chip2447 Date: 17 Feb 02 - 12:27 AM Meanwhile, down the road apiece, an aspiring music maker and struggling writer sits suffering through incessant writers block and wanderlust. Waiting for opportunity to knock, a chance to present itself for a respite, however brief, an escape from the medicority that was his life. As he sits, he plays a tune on one of his many ocarinas, a song that reminds him of her. A tune about Suzanne from Louisiana. Then, as quickly as he started, he lays the ocarina aside, takes a drink of koolaid, and turns back to stare at the empty page tht needs to have words written on it.... |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: JenEllen Date: 17 Feb 02 - 01:15 AM The sun rose like a glorious blueplate special over Billings, nitrogen and helium, light and heat, traveling high in the sky and oblivious to the machinations of all below. The road- weary travelers pulled into the rest stop and clambered over empty cans and bottles to exit their vehicle. It wouldn't be long now. "Are you sure this is the place?" asked the Bartender "Yes" replied the Heron.
Behind the rest station, the free coffee, and the map proclaiming "You Are Here" with its fervent red "X", ran the Yellowstone river. Near that very river, at that very rest station, rested the Picnic Table Oracle of I-90.
The flashing lights became evident upon closer inspection of the curious figure sitting on the table. The oracle appeared to be wearing one of those goofy flashing holiday headbands with reindeer antlers attached.
"It's not a waste, you know" spoke the Oracle, stretching her legs out and turning on the table to face the slowly retreating Heron "Only that man's life is wasted who lived on, so deceived by the joys of life, or by its sorrows, that he never became eternally and decisively conscious of himself as a spirit.."
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Lonesome EJ Date: 17 Feb 02 - 02:52 AM The Rex has stood on this corner of Montana Street since the Glory Days of Billings' reign as the capital city of the northwest cattle market in the 1880s. From Southern Alberta, northern Wyoming, Eastern Washington, the herds had been driven to converge here at the railheads that pointed East to Chicago. In those days, the Rex was on the right side of the tracks, and the trail bosses and the buyers had feasted on beefsteak and exotic delicacies such as pheasant-under-glass and trout meuniere. The rowdy cowboys had sought out the rough and tumble pleasures across the tracks among the brothels and noodle houses. Time has worn away the social barricade of the railroad tracks, and the whores stroll casually up to but not past the brass and oak doors of the Rex. Cowboys and businessmen dine at the Rex, and sometimes they return to the Holiday Inn Billings Plaza or the Sheraton with these sullen streetwalkers. Sometimes, they walk out of the doors of the Rex, and they visit the Montana Bar. The Montana Bar is not a casual gathering place for friendly conversation. The Montana Bar is a place where the whores warm up on cold February nights, where a black pimp from Minneapolis named "Train" finds himself marooned in a corner booth, where a Cree down from Rocky Boys Rez leans heavily on a table and raises his head from time to time to stare blankly at two Crows playing pool, and where another Crow Indian named Montie Antelope Sky tends the bar. Behind the bar, souvenir of a 1975 concert at the Billings Trade Center, is a large autographed photo of Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings. The duo visited the Montana Bar after dining at the Rex and left the picture with Montie. Willie had been especially friendly, joining Montie for the immolation of a fat doobie in the alley behind the bar. Waylon had seemed vaguely troubled by something, and had left the bar early with a regular named Tina Redhawk, promising to return. Montie studied the photo and murmured to the smiling image of Waylon "I reckon you won't be back now, cowboy." For the third time that day, Montie walked to the juke box and tapped in Good-hearted Woman. His attention was drawn to a big raw-boned country boy who was leaning on Train's table and speaking to him in a low threatening voice. Train seemed to be ignoring him, but Monte could feel the electric current building in the smoky air of the tavern as Train sipped his drink and lit a Pall Mall. At that moment Cindy came through the door brandishinga hundred dollar bill, and, distracted by this, Montie never saw Train suddenly rise and punch the country boy in the mouth. He did, however, feel him come reeling past as he slammed into the juke box. As Willie Nelson's voice chanted "the good times..the good times..the good times..", Montie hammer-locked the big guy and leveraged him through the door. "God damn it" he said and ejected the record, giving Train a dark look. Train stared at the far wall and said "he was leanin on me." Then he stubbed out his smoke, grabbed his coat and stood up. "You know the rules," said Montie. "Yeah, I'm goin," said Train."I'll be at the Golden Saddle. See you tomorrow night, Montie." He strolled to the door, then turned to say "I'll buy you a new record, but I don't know why you don't get a CD juke box like everybody else does." The wind was kicking up out on Montana Street. Montie looked out and saw the usual crowd of bored teenagers standing in the lot across the street where 120 years ago a Crow Tipi had stood, lit by campfire. A large, battered trailer was being backed into five parking spots where Newt Wheatly had been gunned down by Jackdaw Conners in 1881. The driver seemed unaware of the scowls being given him by the gaggle of prostitutes who saw his oversized vehicle as a zoning infringement. Montie was ready to suggest he take it down the street when he noticed the likenesses painted on the driver's door. Willie and Waylon grinned out from under a layer of road grit. "I'll be a son of a bitch" said Montie. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Peter T. Date: 17 Feb 02 - 10:43 AM They came into the Montana Bar, the Bartender, Suzy Q., the Oracle with the flashing antlers, and the heron in black. "Damn," said the heron, and turned back to the door. "Forgot the Irishman and the Scotsman." The Bartender turned him back around, and they all went over to the jukebox, nodded, smiled, and sat themselves around a table. "Hey, Montie," said the Bartender. "Many, please." "Land sakes," said Montie with a growl, "The girl from Sigma Chi," and went to work. After a little badinage, the Oracle -- who was unused to circular tables and chairs with backs to them -- turned to the heron and said: "From your years of flying, is there anything you have learned from your unique perspective?" G.B. looked at the Oracle and replied: "Many more people are bald on top than you might think." Suzy Q. said: "I read in a usually reliable source that Kevin Costner has the most expensive hairpiece in the world." There was general agreement that this was a travesty of the truth. Drinks arrived, and the heron, sipping his brew through a straw, proceeded to tell the assembled travellers about his trip to Betelgueuse, including the part about the jai-lai restaurant. It was some hours before they got back within striking distance of the parking lot. The Bartender said: "G.B., if you are going to break the commandments out here in the West, you have to break them well or not at all." The Heron, who was not doing very well, looked up through his spindly legs, not unlike a TV tray that had ingested too much Raid: "?" "Owen Wister."
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Midchuck Date: 17 Feb 02 - 10:59 AM Next stop: Bozeman. Maybe Dr. Lulu can help us.... Stop and pick up the little old guy there with the 000 gigbag and the Super Blackhawk in the cross-draw rig. Maybe he can help us find her... P. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: JenEllen Date: 17 Feb 02 - 04:58 PM Oracle, who not used to sitting in chairs, was even less used to sitting in cars. She was nothing if not a nuisance. The Bartender kept glancing at the Heron as if to say "why did we bring her along again?" and he finally told her that if she didn't stop kicking the back of the seat, pointing out the windows, and leaning out to wave at passing truckers shouting "hey, I know him", she was going to spend the remainder of the trip in the trunk. She pouted a minute, then leaned back and kicked the seat just once for spite, when the Bartender looked in the mirror at her and scowled, "An' ya wanna know something else?" Oracle crossed her arms and glared back, "When I wanna know something, I'll tell you, ya bartending sonofabitch.." The Bartender relaxed his grip on the wheel and grinned. SuzyQ and Oracle relaxed as well, crushing against each other in the back seat. Suzy was chainsmoking cigarettes and painting her toenails, she painted Oracles too, and the two sat back-to-back in the seat, dangling their feet out the windows. Oracle was intently explaining to SuzyQ about the intricate movements of the rest area paperplate fan dance ("across you body, like so, to give the illusion of a crumpled up hamburger wrapper fluttering across an empty parking lot") when she sat bolt upright in the backseat and yelled, PULL OVER! The Wailin' Wall. Bottles stacked up with names like Jack, and Jim, and Mad Dog. The older bottles at the bottom were yellowed with age, and full of wasps and flies that went into the bottles after liquid gold and never returned. The newer bottles at the top glinted like diamonds. When the breezes came from the mountains and skipped across the bottle lips, the wall acted as a jug band all of it's own. Today's long slow wind played a dirge as SuzyQ, the Bartender, the Heron and the Oracle stood quietly before returning to the car. They fished along the floor, pulling out bottles of their own, placed them on the wall, and drove on.
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Peter T. Date: 18 Feb 02 - 08:35 AM They were rolling along in a kind of happy-go-yucky way, particularly after the Bartender opened the hatchway to the actual trailer, which gave everyone more room to manoeuvre, and enabled the Heron (who was fastidious in his own way) to readjust a number of pictures in the bar that had gone awry following the "A River Runs Through It" pantomime episode; including his favourite, a Corot that featured an intoxicating female heron taking her morning dip in a misty pool beneath a stand of silver birches. The painting was marred somewhat by the simultaneous bathing of a set of nymphs that should have known better, but were clearly making enough damn noise to scare the fish. Nevertheless, it was a fine picture to start your day with, especially if you could sit on a bar stool sipping tomato juice, taking the quite pretty scatter of pills the Oracle had prescibed -- "to get you through" -- and hear the miles roll by beneath you. He had got to the part in "The Virginian" where they were about to hang Steve, and he needed all his strength to keep his eye muscles from hurting from the previous night's attempt to recreate the jai lai restaurant on Betelgueuse, which, if he did say so himself, hadn't been a bad imitation, even though they lacked the quintessential ingredient, which they would have had if the state trooper had had a broader mind. At that moment, the trailer and all that therein was, came to a screaming halt on the highway, so as to avoid an elk that appeared to be taking lessons on directing traffic. The Heron was catapulted forward headlong into the Corot, which surprisingly yielded to his onrush. There was a sound as of flutes, a mist of blue, and the gloop gloop gloop of a heron at play in the pools of the morning, the irritating giggles of dopy maidens, and G.B., raising himself on his unsteady legs, moved forward through the brushwork. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Peter T. Date: 19 Feb 02 - 08:46 AM Using a move he had learned among the Betelgueusians, G.B. turned himself inside out, caught the frame of the picture from the inside, and took it down off the wall. There, along with the rest of the thread, he laid it down until better times should arrive. [PARKED] |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Tavern On The Road From: Lonesome EJ Date: 19 Feb 02 - 01:57 PM The Montana State Patrolman called in his position and climbed out of the patrol car. Parked on the shoulder of the Interstate, just past the Columbus exit, the trailer rocked softly in the wind. Officer Craighead knocked sharply on the door. Inside he could hear the sound of a television turned up loud. The Montel Williams show. Finally, a disheveled individual in a t-shirt that read I Survived the Neil Young Center opened the door. It appeared he had just awakened, and as he first took in the cop, then the windblown surroundings, he muttered "looks a lot different in the daylight." The cop gazed at him though his Vuarnets with suppressed distaste. "License and registration," he said. The man stared vacantly at him, scratching his stomach, and said "is there a problem?" The cop took a deep breath and said "you can't park this thing here. You think this is an RV campground? You've even got your satellite dish set up." He indicated the dish, which stood on the grass verge, amid a pile of empty Rainier bottles. "The heron must have done that," said the man, who then climbed out of the trailer and opened the door of the '89 Taurus that was pulling it. Rooting around among the CDs and rolling papers in the glove compartment, the man at last fished out a folded and stained registration, which he handed over with his license. "Alright Mr...Fletpikker. Wait here, please." Craighead radioed the tag numbers in and unsnapped his pistol as he watched Fletpikker lean over the passenger seat to take something out of the backseat. He was relieved to see that it was only another Rainier. The plate number came back clear of infractions, but the dispatcher issued a cryptic warning...."keep an eye on this bunch." After an uncomfortable moment when the Taurus didn't seem to have enough juice to turn the starter, the engine belched into life. "There's a KOA just past the Motel Six on the way into town," said Craighead. He stood and watched the rig slowly execute a u-turn in the middle of the highway. As the trailer passed heading toward the exit, he could have sworn a long-billed bird poked its head through the curtains to gawk at him. It was unsettling. He sat for a moment in the cruiser, then picked up a colorful brochure from off of the dash. "Experience the Delights of Beautiful Cozumel!" he read aloud. Yeah. He had never been more ready for a vacation.
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