The ghosts in Leadville, Colorado are the people who live there.
Never one to stay put and behave myself, I dropped my partner-in-crime at the airport for his airplane test and headed out to one of the local bars. The Silver Dollar Saloon, to be exact. It was just after 5pm and I had in mind to sit and skim over the Beijing and Shenyang chapters of my tour book on China, since that’s exactly where we are headed next week.
Dave the barfly would have none of it.
Have you ever been stared at so hard you feel the trepanation? Yeah, it was like that. He gave off such “Back off, she’s mine” vibes, no one else in the place would talk to me. Of course, I took that as a good thing, based on the fact the rest of the clientele were just as drunk as good ol’ Dave.
I sipped my gin and tonic, read my book, hummed or sang along with several Johnny Cash tunes someone was nice enough to put on the box, and tried to ignore him. I knew it wouldn’t work for long. There are two important rules to remember about bar flies: 1) They are completely unaware of personal body language, so no matter what vibes you give off, they won’t get the message to leave you alone, and 2) Their mood can change on a dime.
As a woman drinking alone in an unfamiliar town - something I do quite a bit - I’ve learned how to deal with bar flies while still recognizing these basic rules. The trick is to remain overtly nice and sympathetic while you massively overtip the bartender. This way when the inevitable occurs, you have backup.
Money talks. Bullshit walks.
Bar fly Dave got in trouble when he took my book from my hands. He was joking around of course, just playing for my attention like a 5 year old boy who pulls a girl’s pigtails. Some people never really mature beyond that level of communication with the opposite sex.
I shot him a look that wilted him. “I’m sorry,” he slurred. “I shouldn’t a’oughta done that.”
I shouldn’t a’oughta done that. It was priceless to hear it uttered in real life and I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. Meanwhile the lovely lady bartender - who had been tipped $3 over and above my drink price twice already - spoke up and told Dave to behave himself.
He staggered back to his barstool and resumed trepanning my skull. As if on cue, my phone rang, and my love informed me we were going to dinner.
There are two types of people who move to small towns: Those who are running from something and those who are running to something. The former are escapists, the latter think they’ll find something better for themselves or their kids. Based on the sheer number of alcoholics and other addicts that seem to congregate in small towns, they all seem to have a death wish.
Before you think I’m basing my attitude on this specific small town on one experience, there were exceptions. Our server at the Quincy Steakhouse was a wonderful, bright, outgoing change of pace. Of course just because we didn’t see her personal demons doesn’t mean they weren’t there. I’m very good at hiding my own when I’m at work.
When the airplane testing was over, I picked up my love at the Lake County Airport (”North America’s Highest Airport!”). It was 1:30am and there were two small, out-of-the-way motels on the route that both showed “no vacancy” signs. I thought this odd for a non-ski season weeknight in a town of 2,000 people located 23 miles off the interstate.
As we drove past on the return trip, it occurred to both of us - having experience with small town life ourselves - that these were the local “no tell motels,” the places where drugs and drink and sex and other vices regularly were indulged. What else is there to do in a town where the sidewalks roll up partially by 6pm and nearly completely by 10pm?
The proof of my assumptions of small town addiction, however, came the next morning when we were leaving our hotel. We always check every nook and cranny to ensure we don’t leave any item behind and, in our search, we found an open and partially used box of copper mesh.
It may have belonged to a townie, but somehow I doubt it.
My addiction is city life.
