I had a few days to kill in Wells before my partner, Terry Fotre, showed up in his sports car. I knew that Nevada, in certain counties, allowed prostitution. I found out that we were in such a county and there were two whore houses out by the railroad tracks. I remember that one was called the Hacienda; I don't remember the name of the other one. So the day after my motel room frolic and accusations of white slavery (see part one, below), I decided to check out this house of ill repute for myself.
This cat house, "The Hacienda", was, literally, on the other side of the tracks. I was a little intimidated at visiting this house what with all the baggage that the word "whore" has attached to it. I had never, knowingly, met such a person and I wanted to see for myself. I walked through the swinging saloon doors and entered the bar. It was a fairly large room with a high ceiling. The walls were covered in a red velvet patterned wall paper. Very red. Hanging on all the walls, and behind the bar were large paintings of voluptuous women in various states of recline and undress. The painter Paul Rubens comes to mind...
I think you get the picture. I ordered a drink and sat at the bar. As my eyes got accustomed to the low light inside---it was hot and bright outside---I noticed that there were several women lounging at a corner table. They were looking at me and smiling. They were wearing a bit more clothing than the women in the pictures above, but not by much. Their sheer tops revealed that these gals had forgot to put on their bras that morning. I was of equal parts fear and arousal. The two ladies whispered briefly to each other
then one of them came over and sat down next to me. "Buy me a drink, big fella?" she murmured in a whispery voice. "Why, uh, of course! Uh, what would you like?" I stammered, like the college boy that I was. My experience with women was fairly limited as I had only lost my virginity earlier that year. I believe the situation called for flirtation on my part. I quietly cleared my throat and started to chat with "Kitty"---I doubt if that was her real name. I wasn't that naive. I don't remember the specifics of the conversation. I paid for our drinks and decided not to purchase anything else.
The next day Terry arrived. I threw my duffel bag in the trunk of his sporty little Triumph TR 4-A convertable and we headed out to our home for the Summer. Montello, as I mentioned in part one of this "saga", was thirty-five miles up the road from Highway 80 on a small two lane that eventually led to Idaho. As we drove East then North, we remarked at how desolate the landscape was. As the inn keeper had told me the night before; nothing but sand and sage brush (and the occasional rattlesnake). In the distance, shimmering like a mirage, we could see a lonely little outpost of humanity. Welcome to Montello. The "town", if you can call it that, consisted of about fifteen houses, a motel, a grocery store/ cafe and across the tracks from the road there was a little train station. The station looked just like the ones in the old cowboy movies. This town, basically supported the railroad repair depot that was adjacent to the train station. As we learned from the motel owner/manager, itinerant, nomadic railway workers were assigned to this depot and they stayed in the motel rooms. They were responsible for track and railcar maintenance in the greater vicinity. The following pictures are representative of the working life of these "gypsy" railroad workers. In the picture below, you'll notice that two stops before "Wells", is "Death". Staring down the tracks as they headed to Idaho, and disappeared in the shimmering desert heat, I was reminded of all those sad and lonely folk and cowboy songs about trains. I think Bob Dylan wrote one wherein he laments that it takes a lot to laugh; it takes a train to cry. Hear that lonesome whistle blow. I now know where "lonesome" resides; on an empty train track in an empty desert of sage brush and sand (and the occasional rattle snake...).
In the sand and gravel courtyard of the motel were parked about six air-stream trailers. They were beautiful things, all shiny and silver with their rounded edges. Then there was our trailer. It was about half the size of the air-streams and had roughly the same shape as the old Volvo hump-backed cars from the 50's. It had a tiny little kitchen, an even tinier bathroom and a small bed in the back. In the front was a small dinette table with two chairs, done up in faded chrome and yellow vinyl. At the front end of the trailer was a sort of bench/couch deal that folded out into a little bed. Terry and I took turns with the sleeping arrangements. The geologists got the air-streams. One was set up as an office and that's where the cartology took place. Terry and I tried, but couldn't manage to squeeze into the little shower stall in our trailer, so we showered in the comparative luxury of the office air-stream trailer bathroom. We were each assigned to a geologist, who would be our boss for the Summer. When we were introduced to our "masters", I could tell from a rather resigned look on their faces that they all must have drawn straws to see who was going to be working with the "college kids" and our guys drew the short straws.
They briefly explained the job to us. Most of the time we would be bouncing through the sage brush looking for these elusive bench marks, as was mentioned in my prior posting. The next day we went down to the local grocery store/cafe and bought provisions for our little nano-kitchenette. Choices, as you can imagine, were limited. The meat counter had a large bologna loaf. You would hold two fingers apart and the butcher would hack off a piece of bologna that size. White bread, a slice of bologna, a hunk of cheddar cheese, mustard, mayonnaise and a bunch of fresh fruit would be our daily sack lunches. That Summer, almost without exception, we ate our lunch in the truck with our geologist. After wolfing down our sandwiches, there was time for a cup of coffee and a smoke or we could nap for a few minutes.
As I got into the Dodge Power Wagon, an "all wheeled vehicle with unbridled power", I was cautioned by my geologist/boss to buckle up tight. I soon found out why. Where we were going, there were no roads. We were bouncing up and over sage bushes, some as big as a washing machine. One thing I'll say for these trucks; they sure could take a licking and I was glad they had seatbelts, otherwise I would have been hitting my head on the cab's ceiling. For water we had a kind of canteen called a swamp cooler. The sides were made of a thick felt-like material and the water would slowly weep through the fabric. The evaporation of this weeping water kept the canteen contents relatively cool, compared to the air temperature which was almost always in the mid-nineties. But, yes folks, it was a dry heat. It looked like it hadn't rained since Noah's ark put to sea and I marveled that the sage bushes could survive in such a hostile climate.
Every now and then, in my futile desert wanderings, searching; every searching, for the elusive little posts called bench marks, I would scare up the odd jack rabbit or coyote and a couple of times, a herd of wild horses. Once, while we were lunching in our truck I looked up to see a mountain lion perched on a large boulder, eyeing us cooly. Otherwise it was just sand and sage brush. I occupied my mind, during these interminable wanderings, by imagining a folk-rock band I was going to put together when I got back to Stanford for my sophomore year. Two guitars---I would play a Rickenbocker electric twelve-string---bass, drums and keyboards; maybe an electric piano and a Hammond B-3 organ with Leslie speakers. My fantasy rock band would be called "Organ Grinder". When I got back to our little trailer after work in the late afternoon, I would grab my guitar and write songs that I would later arrange for my fellow players in the band. Back at Stanford that Fall, I eventually got as far as playing a Rickenbacker in a music store in the city but lost my nerve when it came time put my money on the table. However the fantasy helped to occupy my mind that Summer as I wandered through the sand and sage.
In the morning when we'd get up and fix breakfast before work, the butter would be as hard as leather and almost impossible to spread on our toasted wonder bread without ripping the toast to shreds. When we came back after work, the butter would be a "sea of ghee" floating in the butter dish. For those of you who haven't enjoyed a prolonged stay in the Sonoran desert: Very hot and dry during the day; very cold and dry at night.
In the final posting of this trilogy, I'll write about some of the locals we met and some of the weekend trips we took, including the High School Prom in Big Piney, Wyoming, where we put together a band for the big dance, featuring Beaver Cleaver on lead vocals. If you want to find out how Terry and I spent the weekend with Jerry Mathers aka "The Beave", you'll have to wait for the final installment of this trilogy.
Till then, 'pardners', Happy Trails to You, until we meet again...Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres
Beaver Cleaver in his prime.
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