I sat judging the man from my seat at the bar. And a bar stool, as many know, is a perfect spot from which to judge.
The man looked out of place in this crowded old west style saloon as he clung tightly to the straps of his fancy backpack. Made of quilted black leather, the Prada backpack boasted a large silver logo tag and many fat shiny silver zippers. The man spun in circles, looking confused. I imagined the man thinking, “Did I take the wrong exit? This can’t be Vail.”
Under the warm light of a gigantic wagon wheel chandelier, the backpack glittered as the man spun, like a disco ball prop on the wrong movie set.
***
Silverthorne, Colorado is not Vail, Colorado. It is a mountain town, but not the tourist attracting charming kind. Given its proximity to the charming kind, there are signs of “transition,” but for now, Silverthorne is something of a utilitarian community. The town is an exit off Interstate 70, where in the summer, drivers in pursuit of scenic vistas stop for gas and bug spray, and where in the winter, skiers (in attempt to cut their losses) pull off for more affordable accommodations. The skiers plan of course being to get back on the I-70 early the next day, heading to world famous resorts and “score first tracks.”
On this stormy winter night, that became our plan too. Done with staring at four lanes of solid red taillights, my husband Mark and I pulled off and checked into the Luxury Inn and Suites. It was our last option as the Quality Inn and Suites and the Comfort Inn and Suites didn’t have any rooms left, or suites. Given the promise indicated in any of these names, one couldn’t go wrong. In our case, “luxury“ meant a room with damp carpet and a missing thermostat that looked like it had been ripped out the wall.
“Hope you’re good with 79 degrees,” I told Mark as, using only my thumb and forefinger, I dragged the bedspread off the bed and stood it in the corner. And it did stand. Resistant to gravity, and with stories to tell, the bedspread became an unnerving presence in my periphery.
***
Deciding to stay in Silverthorne is how we ended up at the Mint Steakhouse. A place where you pick your cut of meat from a glass display case, and then grill it yourself. A clever concept not only in keeping with the tough cowboy vibes, but, if you don’t like how it is prepared, you only have yourself to blame. Holding on to a tray weighted with metal tongs and two raw, prime-cut filets, Mark strode to the men’s only grill room (not really, but pretty much) with purpose and swagger. God speed, I thought, as I went in the opposite direction to get a drink, and people watch.
And that is when I spotted the man. He stood like a bolder in a river of oversized plaid flannel and ski jackets making their way around him. Eventually loosened him from his stupefied position, the man began to shuffle backwards in my direction. With no natural instinct to check behind him, the man kept shuffling backwards, heading directly toward the server station where three opened bottles of Coors Light awaited pick-up. His backpack was getting dangerously close to the row of beer bottles, closer, and then closer still. Of course, I should reach out to stop him. Of course, I should. Normally, I would. Of course, I normally would, but, don’t we want to see whether or not a Prada backpack can roll a strike? The backpack took out two of the three bottles. Not bad.
“Hey buddy!” called out the age 60-something bartender, clearly a seasoned pro. His periphery vision kept him abreast of all the goings-on at his bar, and he immediately ran over with a rag, “Watch your backpack! Hey buddy!”
The man turned and blinked at the bartender.
“Your backpack.”
Another blink.
“It’s okay buddy, I got you.”
As the bartender cleaned up, and opened new bottles of Coors, he started to sing one of the theme songs to Dora the Explorer.
“Backpack, backpack! Backpack, backpack!” He set out new bottles for pick-up. “Backpack, backpack.” He kept singing until the man blinked himself backward and disappeared into the crowd.
It was perhaps because I had appreciated the Dora song, and that I wasn’t talking to anyone, that the bartender noticed me, and I became his singular audience member for the following jokes. In between fielding the many drink orders for both the patrons at the bar, as well as the dining room, the bartender would stop in front of me to deliver another joke.
Three in total, and in this order.
Joke #1:
“Did you hear about the blind prostitute?”
I shook my head.
“You gotta hand it to hand it to her.”
I nodded my approval.
The bartender raced off to mix a few drinks, but it wasn’t long before he was back. He leaned in conspiratorially. I leaned in too.
Joke #2:
“How do you spot a blind man on a nudist beach.”
I shook my head.
“It isn’t hard.”
Without waiting to see how it landed the bartender hurried off to take a couple’s order at the opposite end of the bar, quickly stopping to top off a sitting draft beer on the way.
I leaned back. I get it, but I don’t know. I just don’t think of a nudist beach as a place where one goes to be aroused. I think of it as a place where one goes when one is over being constricted by social norms and elastic waistbands. Maybe the blind man was at the Playboy mansion pool…but wait, he needs to be naked too. A naked party at the Playboy mansion?
Before I could finish workshopping it, my bartender was back.
Joke #3:
“So, Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse are in the middle of a divorce trial…”
He paused for a moment.
“Wait, you’re not easily offended, are you?”
I shook my head.
“So, they are in court and the judge says, “Sorry Mickey, saying that Minnie is crazy is not grounds for a divorce. And then Mickey says, “No judge, you don’t get it. I didn’t say Minnie is crazy. I said she is fucking Goofy!””
And then he was off again.
Across from where I sat, encased in the vintage oak of the western bar, was a large etched mirror. I stared at my reflection, a new person to judge. I had to ask myself the most obvious question for someone in my position; what was it about my face that made me look like someone who’d laugh at a Minnie fucking Goofy joke?
If a focus group was asked to look through a stack of headshots and pick out the face most likely to love a Minnie fucking Goofy joke, would my photograph end up with the most fingerprints on it?
“Her,” one unpaid participant would say, holding up my photo, “can’t you just see her throwing back her head and screaming with laughter at that?”
(By the way, I say “unpaid” because I suspect this survey would have a tight budget, but you never know.)
“Yeah, definitely,” another unpaid participant would agree, wanting to earn his keep via free cubed cheese, “she totally looks like someone who would dig a Minnie fucking Goofy joke. Or, like, any joke that involves blind people.”
***
“I don’t get it,” Mark said, after we had found a booth and sat down with our overcooked steaks, “what does someone who would laugh at this Mickey joke even look like?”
I wasn’t sure, I had to admit. But I suspected it was someone with chapped lips and deep nasal folds.
Mark studied the steaks he had grilled, he looked concerned.
“Do you think I need face filler?” I ask.
Mark put his first forkful of steak in his mouth, then sat back and began to chew. It was going to be a while before I got my answer. For the millionth time that day, I was forced to control my inherited irrational impatience.
I couldn’t do it.
“Mark!”
With some effort, Mark swallowed, “Xenia, I have to say, I’m just not following you. Do you think this steak is overcooked? I think it might be overcooked.”
Mark forked the entire steak and held it up for scrutiny.
Of course, the steak was overcooked. If the kitchen had prepared it, I would have sent it straight back, and with some words to go with, because I have more inner Prada backpack in me than what people are seeing.
***
Later that night, while Mark brushed his teeth in bathroom, I laid in bed under the sole sheet.
In one corner of the room hot air blew through a damaged ceiling vent. It looked like someone had pulled a chair over, stood on it, and punched the vent. Likely the same person who had ripped out the thermostat.
And in the opposite corner of the room, sidelit by slivers of outside light that snuck by curtain security, the bedspread still stood tall. A bad ass. If it were alive, I bet it would have a raunchy sense of humor, but who knows, with bedspreads it is sometimes hard to tell.
It occurred to me that I’m bad at memorizing jokes. Up until now, I had only known two, so if I were in a situation where I’d be killed unless I told three, I’d be dead. I memorized the two jokes I know when I was 7 years old. They both came from the back of a 1980s McDonald’s Happy Meal box.
Joke #1
What did the ocean say to the shore?
Answer: Nothing it just waved.
Joke#2
What kind of pet plays music?
Answer: A trumpet.
These two jokes, always in this order, were a one-two punch in my elementary school days. The jokes–and my mom’s open-door policy to gum and Fig Newtons (we lived directly across the street from school)–got me an in with the popular crowd. And then, as an adult, I returned to these jokes to win over a new friend’s young kids. Worked every time, and always, the mother would smile and look relieved, as if my effort to make her kids laugh settled a concern that I was someone who didn’t like children. It wasn’t enough, apparently, that I had two little kids of my own…but fair enough.
Maybe, as with my ‘80s Happy Meal box jokes, these just happened to be the only jokes the bartender remembered, and it really had nothing to do with my face. I doubt it, but maybe. If I had sat at the bar any longer (I was pulled away by Mark who wanted me to come and watch him overcook prime filets), would he have come back to deliver more? When he turned and saw my empty stool, was he possibly relieved?
All I know is that since I have written down and possibly overthought his jokes, I’ll remember them. This makes me a little nervous. The upside is I now have five jokes at the ready, a number that could possibly save my life someday. I just hope I don’t get some kind of joke telling Tourette’s syndrome and blurt out the wrong joke to the wrong audience. Unfortunately, I suspect I will.
Leave a Reply