Cody in Wyoming - 2. Chapter 2

Back on the road again, behind the wheel of my little white Subie, making time on clear roads as I left Boulder and headed north on I-25 towards Cheyenne. Butch was in the back and was quiescent for the time being. The radio shared the news of the day: wars in the middle east, political maneuvering in the various centers of power, degradation of the environment in the cities and the countryside throughout the planet. I listened with half an ear while reviewing the past week’s events within the microcosm of my family. Certainly, there was plenty to mull over during the coming hours of solitude as I returned home.

I kept an ear out for any shifts in the extension ladder and the tube holding my mother’s husband’s fishing rods that were lashed to the roof rack. Yeah, that was one of the surprises during my recent stay at my mother’s. It turns out that Mom and Jack (the husband) had finally decided (come to their senses, rather) to leave the home they built 20 years ago and move into an apartment in downtown Boulder. I could understand their resistance to moving from their beautiful home settled into its beautiful valley with beautiful views up Eldorado Canyon. Still, it was the wrong place to be living for a couple in their eighties. Too many times they had been hauled out of ditches or snowbanks when their car slid off the road. In fact, one of our filial duties during the holiday was taking their Outback to the body shop to get the passenger side door replaced after they had slid into a tree a couple days before our arrival. No, despite the very active support of their neighbors, they could no longer stay in their home. It no longer fit their needs.

So, Mom had made the announcement, another big change. Nearly three decades ago, she had been forced to take a supportive role when she married Jack. When she first introduced us to him, there was something off about his “hail fellow, well met” attitude. He was just a little too charming towards Mom, a little to jovial towards us sons, a little too gemutlichkeit to the world at large. Soon after the wedding it became clear what a jackass and a boor he, in truth, was. Too late for my mother who stood by the vows she had made. Suddenly, the woman who had been stationed in London during the blitzkrieg, who had been widowed after seven years of marriage, who had raised three boys by herself, who had gotten her masters degree while both working full time and heading a household, was forced into the role of housewife and secretary for her new husband.

Now, she announced their coming move because Jack had become a shambling shadow of his former, fatuous self. Jack’s health, both physical and mental, had taken a decided turn for the worse, so, while he still was given to occasional shouting, mostly he sat silently on the periphery of our family gathering. Mom, who had spent nearly three decades in the shadow of her husband was now organizing the search for new accommodations and was preparing to pack up their home of two decades.

So, after Christmas dinner, (turkey and stuffing, yams, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, salad and dinner rolls, mince pie and plum pudding, hard sauce – Mom’s typical regal spread) the family came together to discuss what would be moved, what would be sold, what would be donated and what would be dispersed to us kids. While their weren’t a lot of heirlooms, my mother’s family had been ex-pats for a couple decades and had shipped back a number of valuable Chinese antiques when they were evacuated from Shanghai before the war. We sibs and sibs’ spouses got together late that night to negotiate what items of value went to whom. I can’t say I bargained hard. I’ve always been on the periphery of the family, being something of the black sheep (the baby of the family, the queer boy, the son who chose a career as an actor, the son with the lowest annual income, the son who was single, and the son who left the Lutheran fold, the son who identified as an atheist…). Still, I would be getting a couple chairs, a couple ornamental tables, and a Buddha figurine – certainly more than could fit in the Forester on my return trip.

In addition to the heirlooms, their were all the mundane items that Mom and Jack wouldn’t have room for or need of once they had completed their move. Hence the ladder and the tube that contained two of Jack’s fishing rods which were lashed to the roof rack.

As much as I disliked Jack and was appalled by his treatment of my mother, Jack and I shared at least one thing in common. We both were avid fly fisherman. Given their location in the front range of the Colorado Rockies, it was easy for us to take a day’s excursion to a trout stream and while away the hours in silence on the banks of the stream. While I was an enthusiast, Jack was an artist. He not only knew his local streams, he knew which flies would entice which trout at what time of day during which season at each of the holes we visited. The grace of his cast, the weightlessness of his flies as they floated to the water’s surface, the ease of his stance as he teased the trout to take the hook and the mastery with which he played a hooked fish… all of it… it took my breath away. As much as I disapproved of the man on principle, when he had a rod in his hand, he was an inspiration. I was honored to have been entrusted with his rods

and lures and looked forward to the eventual day I would explore my local trout streams with his rod in my hands. (don’t go there! just… don’t…. ok?)

It was as I was passing Fort Collins that my attention was brought back from my thoughts of my mom’s coming move to the radio (Colorado State’s station, having switched from Denver’s station when its signal became too weak). NPR had a feature on Belle du Berry, the chanteuse who fronted the Paris Combo. Turns out she had just come out with a solo album and was on the circuit promoting it and announcing a new Paris Combo album to be released the following year. After enjoying the excerpts the interviewer played, I pulled out a Paris Combo CD and slid it into the player. Soon, I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, grooving to the mellow dynamism, or perhaps the dynamic mellowness, of their “Livingroom” album. As can happen while driving, I got distracted and began to riff on the song title, “Homeron”. Back in college, my minor had been French, though I had lost most of my ability to follow the language. While I could understand words and occasional phrases of the songs, there’s no way I could interpret the meaning. Still, I wondered, what was an ‘homeron”? Did it refer to the Greek Homer, author of the Iliad? The lyric “Je suis un homeron.” kept running through my head (I am an “homeron”). I kept thinking that the suffix “-on” implied “big” or “large”. Was that a reference to Homer Simpson?

As I approached Cheyenne, I continued to riff on inconsequential ideas and thoughts, skating from one concept to another, enjoying the frictionless stream of subconsciousness that diverted me from the boredom of long distance driving.

------------- ~ o ~ -------------

Somewhere around the intersection of interstates 25 and 80, my thoughts turned to the man I had met briefly at the gas station in the middle of Wyoming’s “nowhere”. I remembered his smile as he watched Butch’s antics in front of his station. I remembered his rough and capable appearance and manner. I remembered grabbing his arm to stabilize him when he slipped on the ice. I remembered the feel of his bicep when I grabbed his arm. I remembered his restraint, his contained friendliness. Most confusingly, I remembered the contradictory signs I got from him: gay or straight? bear or countrified dude?

And I thought about what it might mean for a gay man to live in an isolated gas station beside an interstate which crossed an empty section of southern Wyoming. I let my imagination spin. He would be gay, single and lonely. We would court one another and despite our geographic separation, begin a relationship. I would find employment in a nearby Wyoming town, settle down and we would find a way to have a committed relationship. Or, he would admit his desire to leave his isolated gas station and move with me to an urban center where I could continue my acting career (such as it was). However, I never imagined that I would live with him in his apartment above the gas station, out in the high plains of Wyoming, off an exit to an interstate crossing the least populous state in the nation. That was simply inconceivable.

Or, perhaps he wasn’t single at all. Maybe he had a partner, a trucker who lived with him between hauls. They were content with their lives and with one another. Or, his partner and he had pooled their meager savings and after retiring from the marines had bought the property at the interstate exit and built their gas station. Maybe tragedy had struck and his partner had died suddenly and he was now stuck with the fragments of their shared dream and was unable to separate himself from the original dream.

Or, he was single and enjoyed the attentions of various men passing through, enjoying a varied sex life (maybe even a kinky sex life) with a string of strangers and fuck buddies who stopped briefly while passing by. Or he was single and desparately lonely.

Or, he wasn’t gay at all… had a wife… had kids who picked up the school bus that took them to the local unified high school. Or, he was single and straight and hung out at the nearest country western bar, knocking back shots and beers and trying to get the attention of the young bar maid. Or he was divorced with kids on weekends, when after hours they would pop popcorn and watch a DVD together before bedtime.

Because I hadn’t learned his name, I began a game, auditioning names, searching for one that might fit him. This was the kind of ridiculous activity I entertained myself with to pass the hours, to keep awake and to stay on the road. After picturing him with various names – Andrew, Mike, Bubba, Sheldon, Wilbur (silly name!) – I ended up with Cody, after the Wyoming town. It seemed fitting. The object of my fascination was now christened Cody. I could live with that. Cody. A little too much like a porn star name, but not as bad as Pierce or Brad or Chad. Cody. Nice weight to it.

The irony of all these fervid imaginings was that, before I realized where I was, I had driven right past the exit where Cody lived. I considered taking a u-turn at the next exit, but after driving 20 miles with no interchange, I shelved that idea. I had miles to cover before settling into a motel for the night. I had made no real investment in Cody just an imaginary one. It was easy to give up my scenarios and refocus on my driving, my music and my recent visit with my family as I continued west to Salt Lake then Boise,Yakima and finally Seattle.