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 a very fancy backpack. Made of quilted black leather, the Prada backpack boasted multiple large silver logo tags and 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 huge 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 35 miles east on I-70. Another a mountain town, just not the tourist attracting charming kind. Given its proximity to the charming kind, there are signs of “transition,” but for now, Silverthorne is a utilitarian community where, in the summer, travelers pursuing scenic vistas stop for gas and bug spray. And where, in the winter, skiers pull off for budget friendly accommodations with a plan of getting back on I-70 early, head to one of the surrounding ski resorts, and “score first tracks.”
On this stormy winter night, that was 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. 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. The vents blasted hot air.
“Hope you’re good with 78 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, the western saloon themed restaurant 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 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 at the bar.
And that is when I spotted the backpack, and the man attached. He stood like a bolder in a river of oversized plaid flannel and ski jackets. Eventually the staff and guests maneuvering around him loosened him from his stupefied position and he began to shuffle backwards in my direction. Without the natural instinct to look 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. 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 an 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 the 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 each one.
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 got that one, but I don’t know. I just don’t think of a nudist beach as sexy, 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…
Before I could finish workshopping the joke, my bar comic 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, amused that he was asking that now. This must be a good one.
“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 bar, was a large etched mirror. I stared at my reflection, another patron for me to judge. I had to ask myself the most obvious question; what was it about my face that made me look like someone who’d laugh at a Minnie fucking Goofy joke? Like, if an unpaid focus group was asked to go through a stack of headshots and pick out the person most likely to love a Minnie fucking Goofy joke, would my photograph be the one they’d all agree on?
(By the way, I say “unpaid” because I suspect this survey would have a tight budget.)
***
“I don’t get it,” Mark said, as we settled into a wood booth with our overcooked steaks, “what does someone who would laugh at this Mickey joke even look like?”
I wasn’t sure, but I suspected it was someone with chapped lips and deep nasal folds.
Mark studied the steaks he had grilled, concerned.
“Do you think I need face filler?” I asked.
Mark sawed at the steak and put a forkful in his mouth, then sat back and began to chew. I waited for my answer about the filler. I watched him chew while trying 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 the meat is overcooked? I think it might be overcooked.”
Mark forked his entire steak and held it up for scrutiny.
I said it was perfect as we needed to get back on topic. But yes, our USDA Prime filets had been overcooked. If the kitchen had prepared it, I would have sent it back without hesitation because I have a lot 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 a single sheet.
In one corner of the room hot air blew loudly 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, silhouetted by outside flood lights that had snuck by curtain security, the bedspread stood tall like a bad ass. If it were alive, I bet it would have a raunchy, Minnie fucking Goofy style sense of humor, but who knows, with bedspreads it’s sometimes hard to tell.
It occurred to me that I’m bad at memorizing jokes. Up until that night, I only remembered two, so if I were in a situation where I’d be killed unless I told three, I’d be dead. I learned the two jokes when I was around 7-years old. Both came from the back of a 1980s McDonald’s Happy Meal box. I was sitting at lunch with my mom and when I read them out loud to her she laughed and her laugh was unexpectedly genuine, and so I never forgot the jokes.
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 a cabinet of 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 children. 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 ones of my own…but fair enough.
Maybe, as with my ‘80s Happy Meal box jokes, the bartender just happened to have only those three jokes memorized, and it really had nothing to do with my chapped lips or nasal folds. I doubt it, but maybe. If I had sat at the bar any longer (eventually I was pulled away by Mark who wanted me to come and watch him overcook the filets), would he have come back to deliver more? When he turned and saw my empty stool, was he disappointed or 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, but I suspect I will.