ranch house

the arts of existence — Part 4

. . . continued from registration & the room at the end — the arts of existence — Part 3 . . .

	The Ranch House interior conjoined brutalist with agrarian: 

Polished concrete floors under lacquered four-tops with industrial design metal chairs evoked an artsy detention center feel.

Corrugated metal wainscotted raw wooden-planked upper walls hanging neon beer brands & flatscreen sports, interspersed with nostalgic farming implements like a decorative plow harness or two-person crosscut saw. An occasional wagon wheel leaned in a corner or a barrel sprang up in the middle of the dining room. 

The place was nearly empty, but the overlapping mix of competing sportscasts & background pop playlists created a din that seemed to anticipate an imagined crowd. 

	I took a stool at the bar about four down from the only other customer, a guy about my age, sitting behind three empty talls — each a different brand of light or lite — & a plastic food basket of something.

I’d just opened the menu when I heard “Been here before? Food’s good.” 

He picked up the basket, pointed to show much was left & said “And cheap. Brisket nachos. Only seven bucks. Wanna try some?” 

He slid the basket towards me. The top was a brownish matte. He hadn’t eaten much.

I said “No. Just got a tooth pulled.” 

This gift of a truthful excuse almost made the actual procedure worth it.

He asked where I was from & how the jobs are around there. 

I began to say that there's not much work when a young bartender asked “Want another one Wayne?” He said “Yeah, work is stressful. That's why I come in here.” 

She took my order, too — brisket chili — then talked to Wayne about how expensive daycare & rent are & that she’ll “quit the bar and just work at the other job at the hospital when the bills are caught up.” 

She said her “boyfriend isn't working.” Wayne said “He should look into equipment operator sorta jobs.” She said “Where?” Wayne said he’s “seen job sites around town.” 

He turned to me & asked "What’s it called? Heavy equipment work?"

I said I wasn’t sure.

Wayne asked the bartender “Why is he still not working? Not motivated?” 

She said they have “different ways of looking for work." 

Wayne answered himself as well with “Yeah, no motivation.”

The bartender shrugged.

Wayne asked her, “You play sports right? I was on the elliptical the other day for an hour and a half. Did like eight miles. Believe it or not . . . my chubby ass . . . I feel good.” 

A vision flashed of Wayne in a terrycloth headband eating a nacho.

A few people walked in — one wearing a lime safety vest — & sat at the bar on my other side, putting me between them & Wayne. He looked over to them, said “Hey there,” then picked up his cell like he’d suddenly thought of something & started pecking — said he "found a number.” 

The bartender pulled out an order pad, jotted Wayne's find & walked away. 

Wayne turned to me & said “You know, there's so much of that in this country, those kinds of dilemmas — even here & not just in those poor places you hear about.” 

I looked down the bar. The vest raised a hand to order. The bartender was turned towards the tiered bottles & bar mirror, speaking into her cell.

Wayne said “Yeah, it's an Americana thing.” 

The bartender came back & told Wayne she’d "just called the number & left a message,” then walked away at the sound of an order-up bell from the kitchen. 

I wondered how her phone message would come off in the morning: left in the evening — background bar noise — a woman reciting her boyfriend’s name & number. 

The bartender returned with my bowl of chili & fanned out some cracker packs on the counter.

Wayne went on, saying he's “from around here. Worked in the fields when I was twelve. A truck stop down the road when I was eighteen, midnight to 8AM shift, then joined the Marines. Came back here.”

He didn’t say what he does for work now, but asked where I was going. 

I told him towards California. 

Wayne said “California — used to go there all the time.” 

The bartender came back & said “I've got relatives in California.” 

I asked “Where from?” 

She answered “They live in like a cul-de-sac area.” 

Wayne said, “No, he means what part of California are they from.”

She said, “They live near a desert. Ranch style. Huge indoor pool. I think they actually live in the desert.” 

Wayne took a sip & turned back to me with “You ever notice the people out there? They're kinda snobby? You notice that?"  . . . 

I picked up a cracker pack & pinched to a crumb pillow. 

. . . "Lots of radicals, too. They talk about it on forums I see about the liberals & whatever . . . You know how they are.”

Wayne pushed the beer can towards the other empties & ordered another. 

More barstools filled. Wayne’s attention was diverted to someone down-bar. He asked about their work van, then got up to stand next to them, discussing a recent repair. 

I paid my tab while Wayne was mingling. When I stood to leave, I heard him say to someone “Sorry about those explosions in my backyard last week.” 

	Instead of going to my room, I headed towards the beer-lobby. Outside the door, a figure was smoking. When they saw me coming, they rubbed the lit end on the walkway, leaned the butt on a window ledge & went inside. 

An older woman was behind the counter. A small TV, like the one in their homemade music video ad, was on a desk behind her. I grabbed a beer from the cooler, went to the counter & pulled two ones out of my wallet. 

The local news was on: a report about squirrels that had stashed fifty lbs of pinecones in someone's car. We stopped in the middle of the transaction to watch. When the story ended, we just looked at each other, silent for a sec, then laughed together as she handed me my change & said “Squirrels. Ya gotta love 'em. Ya just — gotta — love ‘em!” 

	Back in the room, I opened the book bag. First grab found a Complete Works. The introduction mentioned the late author’s birthplace. The map showed it to be a small town about a half-hour away. 

I wondered what impression the writer or their work left there. Maybe there would be a memorial or something else — something indistinct. 

The first show was still a day away. The meandering phase of my tour prep was perfectly on schedule. I opened the beer & mapped a detour.

. . . read on with lookaround — the arts of existence — Part 5 . . .