Real Life Imitates Trooper York's Fiction

"I called this place ‘America’s worst place to live.’ Then I went there."

Sound familiar? It's one of the subtexts of Trooper's unfinished story. Story after the jump.


[A guest post from Trooper York, first published in serial form at Lem's Levity. All rights reversed]

Julia sat in the diner sipping her tea and looking at the plate of eggs that the harried waitress had set before her. They looked greasy and hurried. Much like the rest of the patrons of the diner.

Why had she agreed to come to his horrible place to research an article for “The Huffington Post?” She had to leave her comfortable studio apartment that she paid five thousand a month for in Williamsburg Brooklyn to come to this cold winter landscape of North Dakota. She had to leave behind so much. Her books. Her supportive friends. Her organic food market. Her cat. Oh God her cat. She missed her so much.

The little bell at the top of the door jingled and a man walked into the diner. He was tall and lean. Wearing jeans and a down parka with a yellow hard hat. He must be an oil worker. The type of person she was supposed to talk to in order to get a good article. He walked up to the counter and sat down. He put his hat and gloves on the counter and opened his coat.

“Hi Jack” said the waitress as she set a cup in front of him and filled it with steaming hot coffee from a battered glass pot. “Any luck last night?”

“Yeah Flo I was pretty lucky. But you know me. When I drill I always strike a gusher. I push and push and push my tool down the shaft until I make something happen. That’s what I do.” “Ha you’re a kidder” laughed Flo as she flushed red. “The usual?” “Sure.”

Julia’s ears perked up. This is something she should investigate. Drilling. Gushing. Somehow she felt strange. Ezra never talked about things like that. He just wanted to sit on her couch in his flannel pajamas and drink cocoa and talk about how great Obama was and how lucky we are to have him as President. Maybe she would learn something.

Jack sipped his coffee and looked at the mirror above the cut out of the kitchen. He noticed a young woman all dressed in black pushing some eggs around her plate. She had mousy brown hair and no makeup. But at least she had a vagina. Or at least he hoped she did. Vaginas were in short supply these days.

Flo brought over his plate. A bloody, rare breakfast steak. A couple of eggs over easy. Mounds of greasy home fries. Breakfast fit for a man. A working man. Someone who had to go out into the freezing cold and get the raw materials that let the weenies sit in their soft offices sending emails to each other about how benighted Jesusland was.

It looked like the girl was trying to get her gumption up. That is if she had any gumption. Jack’s experience with these types was that they lacked in the gumption department. They made up for it with loads and loads of bitchiness. Who needed that? But there still was the vagina thing. It was at least worth a look. You never knew if a hole was good unless you drilled it. So to speak.

“Excuse me waitress but could I have some more tea” the woman said in a typical New York snotty accent. She sounded just like that ugly girl with all the tats on that HBO show. He hated to admit he watched it but hey a naked woman was a naked woman. Beaters can’t be choosers.

“Her name is Flo ma’am” said Jack. “Sometimes it helps if you know people’s names. Or say please. That’s how we do it here in North Dakota missy.” He said it with a smile that took the sting out of it. Jack had a smile that had got him in plenty of panties back in Texas. Maybe it would work the same with this New York girl.

Julia felt a little crestfallen. She was a polite girl. She had learned that back in Connecticut before she had her consciousness raised and her expectations lowered. Plus most of all she had to fit with the natives. She could be polite. But she wasn’t going to go to shoot a gun. Or go to church. You had to draw the line somewhere.

“I’m sorry Flo, what was I thinking? Can I please have another cup of tea? Thank you.” She turned to the oil line cowboy. “I was a little preoccupied. I have a lot on my mind. My name is Julia by the way.”

“Hi Julia my name is Jack. But most folks call me Rod. Hot Rod to be exact. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Julia smiled in a demure way that devastated the geeks at the wine bar. “I wonder if I can interview you for my article. I am a journalist and I want to learn about the boom times you are having here in North Dakota.”

“Well I am originally from Texas ma’am and we think the only thing worse than a journalist is a lawyer. So I am not interested in talking to a journalist. But I will be happy to talk to you as a man talking to a woman.”

“I could work with that” Julia said. How hard would it be to outwit this bumpkin. He is from Texas after all. She just hoped he didn't have a black man dragging from the back of his pickup truck. But she could work with that. After all she had interviewed a Republican. Once. It took a long time to feel clean afterward. Anything for the truth.

A short balding man came into the diner. He was dressed like an oil worker but he carried a dented, dirty guitar case. He didn’t wear a hat which was unusual in this cold climate. He resembled nothing so much as a demented Walter Brennan with a list to the right as he limped up to the counter.

“Let’s go Hot Rod. We have to practice before work. We got us a couple of minutes before the starting whistle. Our gig is down at the Long Branch tonight and I want to practice our licks before then.” “Sure Stubby.” Hot Rod got up and started buttoning his jacket. “This here’s my compadre Stubby. He plays in my band. The Stray Dawg’s. Stubby, this is Julia. She's visiting. She is one of those jo-no-lists, so watch what you say. She might report you to the government or something.”

“Nice to meet you Miss.” “Yes nice to meet you as well. Please call me Julia. So what is this Long Branch you are talking about?” “Why it’s the bar where the band has a standing gig every Friday night. They named it after the one in “Gunsmoke” Stubby replied. “We go on tonight at eight o’clock” said the balding gnome with an animated delivery that belied his corpse-like pallor. “That sounds like fun. What do you play Jack?” she enquired with a smile. “I’m a drummer as a matter of fact.” “Yes he is” laughed Stubby. “Like the song goes he likes to bang on the drum all night. Ha, ha, ha” he chortled. Jack shook his head. There was no controlling Stubby when he went off on tirade. He hoped he didn’t start in on white women. They could be here all day. Who had time for that?

“Well it’s still a free country. At least out here” said Jack. “Why don’t I come down to hear you play. Maybe we can talk a little between sets. I’ll buy you a drink” said Julia. “That’s nice but I always make it a practice to pay for a lady” replied Jack as he put on his yellow hard hat and prepared to go out into the cold. Julia shook her head. Here we go. Sexism rears its ugly head. “We can argue about it later cowboy. But just so you know I don’t surrender to Patriarchy. Ever!” “Not to worry Mizz Julia. I hate those cheaters up in Boston. I am a Cowboys Fan” said Jack. He winked at her and strode confidently out the door without a backward glance. His little friend too.

Was he serious or was he pulling her leg. The thought of him pulling at her legs gave her pause. She felt a little flushed. It had been a while since she felt like this. She adjusted the cowl neck of her sweater. Maybe North Dakota would be interesting after all.

Flo came over with another cup of tea and a piece of apple pie. “Here you go sweetie. You are gonna need your strength if you are gonna hook up with Hot Rod.” “Who said anything about hooking up?” Julia was nonplussed. They knew about hooking up in North Dakota?

Flo could read her thoughts. “We know all about hooking up here in the sticks dearie. We call it being a slut bag.” She was fiercely protective of her boys who deserved better than a dried up stick of New York dog shit. “But you know best I am sure. Enjoy your pie.”

Julia hated apple pie. Also hot dogs and Chevrolet. After all she was a liberal. She had an Audi and only ate veggie burgers. And tofu cheesecake. But there wasn’t any tofu in North Dakota. When she asked for it at the hotel dining room they thought she was talking about toe cheese.

She sat there lost in thought. How was she going to get a purchase on these simple minds? The cowboy might be an interesting diversion. She knew how to handle difficult men. After all she was pushing forty even though she looked much younger. She had enough experience to know better.

She thought back through the years -- about her college boyfriend when they were both at Vassar. They had discovered so much together. Tennessee Williams. Marx and Engels. Che. Balzac. His ball sack. Cunnilingus. It was a time of discovery for the both of them.

Julia laughed a little to herself. Ratso Stoddard was a very smart guy. Never let a word serve when he could use fifty five of them. He would argue about anything. Any time. With anybody. The only way she knew how to shut him up was to stick her tit in his mouth. Good times.

But like most men he was a big disappointment. She should have known when he took Ratso Rizzo as his professed role model. He only answered to the nickname Ratso. Of course you could understand that when you knew his real name was Mort. He left her for a Brazilian stripper with size 44 D’s and a suspiciously large scar where her Adam’s apple should be. She shouldn’t judge. She was a liberal after all. Non-judgmental. Superior in all regards.

The only thing that gave her pause was that she was all alone. Again. Her eggs were getting as unappealing and congealed as the cold glob sitting forlorn on her breakfast plate.

Enough introspection! Time to go back to the hotel and blog. She had a spot on Blogging Heads to prepare for today. She hoped it was with Bob Wright. She felt like slapping around a girlie man.

Julia went to her hotel room to wait out the day before she went to the bar to hear that loser band play. She could get some work in on the computer before then. Order room service. Stay in her room. Not talk to anyone except on-line. It would almost be as if she was back home in Williamsburg. All she needed was the chubby gay guy who did pen and ink drawings and had the collection of esoteric vinegars. She would hear him moaning through the paper thin walls and know that he was getting it on with his Peruvian busboy boyfriend. At least someone was getting some. As a matter of fact, she had not seen him for a while. Oh well that’s the way it goes. People came in and out of her life now. She really had very few friends in real life anymore. All of her social intercourse took place on the internet.

She stripped down to her bra and panties. They were sensible ones. A basic black bra with a heavy underwire and not quite granny panties. Not frilly. Not lace. She wasn’t about to wear something like that. She didn’t even have any sets like that anymore. Who would get to see them anyway? Her cat?

Julia examined herself in the mirror over the dresser. She cupped her somewhat large breasts to bring them to a point. Points way down low and soft. Julia hated Bob Seger. She wondered what kind of music she would have to endure tonight. Probably country. Cowboy music. She hated country music. It wouldn’t be what she was used to hearing. Techno. Industrial. Rap. Hip hop. She didn’t like the last two anyway. Black people scared her. She couldn’t admit that. Then she would be a racist like the people here in North Dakota. She didn’t have any black friends. Well not real black people who worked at regular jobs like a bus driver or a school teacher. They were basically beneath her. She had some African American “friends” but they were all academics. You know. The Cosby kids. Not the Boys in the Hood.

She jiggled her breasts up and down. They were her best feature. It was how she attracted male attention. Of course it didn’t take much to get the geeks she normally met at blogger conventions. They were basically the dweebs that went to comic book conventions except they could spell. Some loser would always ride up in the elevator with her and hit on her [lol - ed.]. Or least in her mind they hit on her. It could be true. But even that hadn’t happened lately. Maybe she should wear her tight jeans and her most revealing top. Who was she kidding? All of her jeans were tight these days. She might as well let it work for her.

She opened up her lap top and turned on the Internet Explorer. She decided to do a quick run through of her favorite sites. She went to Blogging Heads to see the featured bloggers today. Oh crap. It was that simpering ninny from Wisconsin who looked a deracinated Florence Henderson vainly flirting with that racist black college professor Ivan Dixon guy. Damn. She had been watching too much MeTV. Julia was starting to identify everyone she met as sitcom characters from the 1960’s and 1970’s. But what’s a lonely girl to do. She couldn’t watch the current TV shows. They were all too violent. CSI and Hannibal Lector and Walking Dead bodies all over the place. If it wasn’t violent it was gay. Nothing against gay people. All of her best friends were gay guys. Her last three boyfriends were gay. Or she turned them gay. But why did every sitcom have to be obsessed with gays? Back in the day the only gays you saw were Charles Nelson Reilly and Tony Randall and Paul Lynde. Julia liked to watch the old shows that she remembered from when she was a little girl. She could be Mary Richards working at the News Station. Or Rhoda working as a window dresser. Or even Dixie McCall who was the nurse who ran the Rampart Hospital. But instead she was alone in her underwear playing with her computer.

Julia surfed from site to site. She usually hit the same ones all the time. The one with the angry black man who hated racism, new age gurus, French women and anyone who’s skin was lighter than Harry Belafonte's. The guy or girl who pretended to be a cow and posted funny pictures and conservative political stuff. Even that strange fellow who was obsessed with food and pop up books. It was an eclectic bunch. But still very incestuous. They all posted and commented on each other’s blogs. It wasn’t a cool incestuous relationship like Angelina Jolie and her hot brother. It was more of a creepy Woody Allen in the attic sniffing your lady bits kind of incest. So every once in a while she wanted to change it up.

Maybe she could do that with this oil worker dude. He sort of reminded her of Johnny Gage the paramedic. At least he wasn’t Corporal Lebec like her last boyfriend. She had decided. She would wash her vag again before she went out. You never know what might happen.

Julia wasted most of the day reading “Television Without Pity” and posting snarky nasty comments on the “Honey Boo Boo” thread. Anything to stick a finger in the eye of these rubes. After a short nap and an even shorter grooming session, Julia left her hotel room and went down to the lobby. She went to the concierge to ask how to find this “Long Branch” so she could check out the band and more importantly to question some of the locals. Julia found that her questioning always went better with alcohol. Maybe she could wrap this up tonight and get back to Williamsburg in time to read the Sunday Times alone in her room. With her cat George Sand.

The desk clerk was busy on her computer and looked up with a bright smile until she saw it was Julia. She wondered why she so often had that effect on service people. She didn’t understand that it was because she was an unreconstructed bitch on wheels and treated service people as what she saw them to be. Servants. Theoretically she supported these hard working people. In reality she tipped like a black person. Or a German. So they only gave her the minimum courtesy that any customer might be due.

“Do you know how to get to the 'Long Branch' saloon” she asked brusquely. She often felt that if she was rough and gruff she got better results from the “lower classes.” In fact it just meant that she always got spit in her latte but what she didn’t know wouldn’t burst her bubble.

“Really. You are going to the 'Long Branch'” well okey dokey.” The clerk looked amused. “Just drive down Main St and turn on Jefferson. Go about a mile until you see a down at the heels honkey tonk with a bunch of beat up old trucks and American cars. There’s a Buffalo head over the door and a neon sign with three letters out. That’s it.”
“Delightful.” Julia shuddered. She walked away without saying thank you. That was her style. Entitled. She left gratitude and humility to those less gifted. She did not have a PhD in Woman’s Studies so that she could be nice to desk clerks.

Julia got into her hideous rental car and drove down Main St. It was bustling with people and commerce even at this hour. The boom times from the energy explosion in North Dakota had brought a lot of money to so many undeserving types. They were prospering from the rape of the land. Like their ancestors who stole this land from the Native Americans. She had to expose them. She had to find the truth of their evil. This story must be told.

Julia walked into the raucous bar. There was a big crowd drinking and dancing on the straw dust covered floors. Hot Rod and Stubby and couple of other old dudes were wailing away on song. She couldn’t quite recognize it. Oh yeah. It was Zeppelin. “Black Dog.” Racists.

Julia went up to the bar. She found a seat and waited. A heavy breasted Latina with a scar and a purple streak in her hair walked to her with a bar towel and a smirk. “Hola Mommy wha chu want?” “Do you have any white wine perhaps a chandon blanc?” replied Julia.
“Red or white baby red or white you chooze.”
“Never mind I’ll have an Amstel Light.”
The bartender reached down and took out a bottle of Bud. “Bud or nada chica -- this is an Americana Bar.” She twisted off the top and walked away.

Julia turned toward the bar to watch the band. Hot Rod was wailing on the drums and Stubby was nodding out like a junkie on the needle in the park. There was a black guy with a grizzled beard playing the lead guitar and who stood4 in front of the mike. Another guitarist looked vaguely Hispanic. Julia was surprised. She didn’t know that were any minorities in North Dakota. Let alone in a cracker cover band.

The song ended with a flourish and the black guy went to the mike. “OK people one more song before we take a break. Here is an Al Green tune I bet you all know. Get up and dance bitches!” The band swung into a rollicking version of “Take it to the River.” The singer was pretty good and the band kept up with him as the rocked out the soul tune. They were surprisingly good. For North Dakota.
The song ended with a wail and the band started to put down their instruments. Somebody fired up the jukebox. Somebody shouted “Sing it Waylon!” Wasn’t he dead? Maybe not. Someone else would have picked up the puppet and carried on with the act. Lovely.

Hot Rod and Stubby and the black singer walked up to the bar. Stubby shouted across the raucous room “Three buds and three shots of tequila you filthy puta!” “Doncha make me come over there and rip what little you got off a you Stubby” said the busty barmaid as she frantically twisted open bottles and poured shots to the crowd that had rushed the bar after the band stopped playing. “I will be over there in one Segundo!”

Stubby turned to Julia with a laugh and said “Vanessa just loves me. We would get married if only she was a Filipino.” Julia was confused. “Why only Filipino’s?” “Because those are the only women for me. Don’t get me wrong. I would be happy to dip my wick in anything. Even a white girl from New York City if you know what I mean” he laughed at himself. Hot Rod knew when it was time to interrupt. He interposed his body between them. “That’s great Stubs. Go wrangle the drinks while I talk to the young lady. I promised her that we would palaver.” Stubby shrugged and continued shouting across the bar at Vanessa.

“Your friend is quite the charmer” Julia said. “He’s alright. Good man on the rig and he can play. Let me introduce you to my friend our lead singer. This here is Roscoe. Rosc this is Julia all the way from New York City.” The large lead singer of the Stray Dawgs bent down to shake her hand. He was a tall burly black man with a salt and pepper goatee and a shiny bald head. He strikingly resembled Delroy Lindo in a pair of stained overalls. “Nice to meet you. Name’s Meadowlark Lemon but you can call me Roscoe like all the rest of the ignorant crackers do.” “Stop screwing around Rosc she don’t get it. I told you she comes from New York City” sighed Hot Rod. “I most certainly get it” Julia huffed. What is it with this yokel? She gets it. Well she was very confused but she was not going to admit that. That is how she went through college and she didn’t admit it then either. She was good at fooling herself. “Anyway can we talk for a few minutes Jack?” “Sure enough just let me get my drink.” He turned and picked up his shot of tequila and downed it. Then he sipped from his long neck bottle of Bud and turned back to her. “Let’s go find a corner. I like to sit with my back to the wall.”

[to be continued one day]