WeirdThingsGerogeSaysAndDoes.Com Pt. 2

1. A couple, 50-something, walk in and pick up an old air force jacket.

"Yep, that a nice jacket there. Bought it for about $300 brand new. It's U.S.A. made," George says.
"Forty dollars, huh?" The guy asks.
"Thirty-five and it's yours."
"Now, honey, why would you want that?! I picked it up and looked already and it's all worn on the back," the woman says.
"....."
The man says nothing.
George puffs up like a rooster.
"Lady, that leather is almost in perfect condition."
"No, I know it's not."
"You know?! Lady, I know. My wife did leather working for almost twenty years. Sheesh.... you know.... If you want some leather you know why don't you go down to Wal-Mart and get some of that cheap China leather made by little kids in sweat shops."
"Well, we just might do that."
The man says nothing. George looks at me and smiles real big. He has what I think is a tuna salad (maybe egg salad) with banana peppers sandwich in one hand and a half-finished Odouls in the other hand. The couple walks off toward their Ford F-350 extended cab, diesel sucking blue pick-up truck. George is propped up in his door way and spits, almost like he's marking and guarding his territory.
"Lady, you want a number for a proctologist? Might help ya find ya head. Jeesh," he says, turning to me," see what the wind does to me?! Makes me cranky."

2. George walked into the shop today and farted in the doorway while I was in the process of carrying out boxes to put on the porch.

Dead Kiwi Hedgehog

You're riding along and then *wabomph*, damn, you're instantly 10 mph slower than you were, cruising crooked because of the force coming at you from the east, now the west, now straight on, and damn, you're sweating, but the wind is so cold, goosebumps, shift down, the winds blowing so hard you can't hear "Zoot Allures" anymore, one of the best Zappa albums next to "Joe's Garage."

Riding in Durango is kind of like that. I did a 32 mile loop yesterday, with the turning around point being where highway 250 crosses the Animas River. There's an overpass where you can jump from into the muddy river. A bunch of folk of Latin origin were relaxing on the surrounding rock drinking some low-alcohol-content-sweet-beverage-type-of-looking things. I sat down, pondered the dirty water while my legs rested.

Hopped back on my bike. I'm pumped. Headwinds the whole way back. No longer so enthusiastic. At the end, felt like I rode at least 50.

On the way back, I think I saw a dead hedgehog about the size of a kiwi and I know I saw a rotten pile of bones and fur of large size (animal unknown) on the side of 550 that was there last time I rode. Don't these people ever shovel their deceased? A decent burial in an industrial crematory at least? Sheesh........

WeirdThingsGerogeSaysAndDoes.Com

I'm considering changing this blog to "WeirdThingsGerogeSaysAndDoes.Com."

Yesterday, during "training:"

1. About 10:30 a.m., Geroge walks up while Wes and I are putting the multitude of stuff on the porch to prepare for the workday (the porch of this place is like a humongous garage sale on a small porch).

"Welp, eh, been tryin' to turn Wes gay. It'd help 'em do this job a little better, gets things organized better. As you can see, he ain't gay yet."

2. About 12:00 p.m., George is sitting behind his desk. Only the top two buttons of his denim shirt are buttoned and the rest of his grease stained shirt are sliding down the sides of his belly, revealing an equally unkempt t-shirt.

(With a real weird laugh and smile): "Wes told ya about the initiation yet?"

"Uhhh... No....?"

"Huh. Figgered he would've." He unclasps his fingers resting on his belly and fumbles around in the top drawer of his desk. "This is the cash drawer." He takes out an envelope with money in it. "Try to keep bout a hundred dollars in here. If it's less, I gotta pay sales tax on it." Continues fumbling around in the drawer. "Ahhhh, here it is." He takes out a taser, one that looks police-issued, and turns it on. An electric-blue bolt of stuff I don't want to be near cracks and pops and cracks and pops and sounds like bubble wrap being popped except at a much higher decibel rating. "Can I try this thing out on ya? Wes wouldn't let me do it either. But, see, if anyone ever comes in here givin' ya trouble, we gotta know what we're dealing with here. We gotta know how well this thing works and we can't know unless somebody is willing to let me try it on 'em."

He said he was kidding and purchased the thing mainly for the women who have been employed there, just in case anyone tries anything funny. Part of me wonders.

3. George had a bowie knife stowed in between some books next to his desk. He said he's get rid of it soon... whatever that means. When I went in the shop last Friday, he had two old sabers next to his desk. They're gone now.

I like George.

Hiking in Hermosa

I found a stick yesterday. A stick - one minus the bark with squiggly little engravings probably squiggled by some little woodivore. It's curved, allowing for a preferable weight distribution. I brought it home.

Yesterday, Liz and I went a few miles outside of town to Hermosa to hike. We twisted and turned up a dirt road to the trail head and hiked about 9 miles to somewhere around 9000 ft. The Hermosa Creek trail is a heavily used outing for hikers, bikers and those disgusting dirtbikes that leave trails of dust and exhaust. Aspens are abundant in the forests here and their white bark makes it seem like winter when you come upon a clearing of a couple hundred of them. All the pictures in this post are from the hike.

Every few miles we'd happen upon a narrow trail on the side of a steep hill (I don't mean hill in the Midwest sense of the word either). The tree line would thin out and you could see for miles and look all around at the still snow-capped peaks in the distance.

Did you know scat means poop? Public schools failed terribly - I didn't know that.

I think it's pretty damn cool to live in a place where a legitimate concern while hiking is encountering a bear or mountain lion.

I went to a potluck Saturday night with Liz and met some more friendly Durango(nians?)(ans?)(phers?)(ons?). One of them shared a few bear encounter stories that happened to people she knew. Allow me to paraphrase:

So, her friend was camping in the mountains and had to take care of a little business. He goes off into the trees, finds a nice place where he can lean against a tree and look out to this beautiful view. He starts doing his thing and hears a noise. Turns around and sees a bear. That will definitely get things moving.

Another friend went to go find some water. He took a water purifier and some other bottles and such. Now this guy had been trained on all actions dealing with encountering a big-toothed, blabbering, black, brown, brazen, brave, blood thirsty bear. Guess what? On the way to the water he runs right into a bear, drops all his stuff, and dashes back to camp. Once his courage finally trots back to camp, he goes to collect his things that he'd dropped and get some water. He finds the spot and sees a long track of bear scat going off into the woods. They both scared the shit out of each other.

Referring back to my last post, I got a job. I went into the bookstore, Southwest Book Trader, and, by golly, there was George in all his cantankerous, crotchety glory sitting behind his desk, which is sitting behind a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall stack of milk crates full of books.

I talk to him and all the while he's moving things for the sake of simply moving them. He stacks books and they fall and re-stacks them. He makes god-awful mucus-rattling, guttural noises and spits in the trash can. He has a long whit ponytail, small glasses, a big belly, and a cowboy hat He asked me about three different times in ten minutes why I was in Durango and supplanted Indiana University with Iowa University, Illinois University, and Indiana State University.

He never really looked at me while I was talking to him. He showed me how they keep track of hours while they work - 3x5 cards. I'm pretty sure pay is under the table. George told me to come in and train today. Hope he remembers that I'm coming.

The store is dusty, dimly lit, has a good front porch, and about a million books - my kinda place.

Did I miss something? Is there something in the water? Am I hypersensitive to the movements of the clock? What the hell is wrong here? Days in the Southwest go by so slowwwwwwwwww.

Life by the Hood.

Durango, CO

This is day three. My third day of life the furthest west I've ever been. The third day of post-college, real world life. The third day I woke up with a scene that could have been painted by a backdrop artist for Hollywood movies - the mountains that cut the clouds in half, which makes them give way to the sun.

Durango, Colorado is nestled at about 6,500 ft. inside of a bowl of mountains. and has a population of 15,000. Only about seven square miles, Durango attracts yuppie tourists, hitchhikers, outdoors enthusiasts, and some damn good-hearted, easy-going folks. A pair of Carhartt work pants with a pair of gloves tucked in the back pocket, a flannel shirt, and an old sweat-ringed hat make up the fashion aspect of life. And at a few bookstores, locals get a ten percent discount on books.

My life in the last couple days has consisted of walking around Main St., popping in and out of shops, going to the library (Borges said: "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library"), cooking, and reading "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace. But, more importantly, I've been pursuing employment.

My job search has been like this so far:

Yesterday, I went in to an old bookstore where the carpet by the entrance was worn to the wood underneath and the floor leaned in different directions depending on how tall and heavy the stacks of books were. Wesley, one of three employees (including the owner), was outside with his golden retriever (Durango has a plenitude of canine companions cleverly named "the durango dogs").

The day before, Liz and I walked by and seen Debbie, the second of three employees including the owner. I asked if they were hiring.
"Sure, I'm leaving in July and so is Wesley. We're probably hirin'. It's tough work, but if you don't mind moving boxes in and out of the store everyday, it's easy. We had 98 of these (milkcrates) last summer that had to be put out every morning and put up every night."

According to Debbie, the store is run by George, a cranky old man.

Yesterday, George was out - fly fishing.

"Might be out there all day or he might come in. Just don't know," said Wesley.

I stood inside the doorway talking to Wesley and the phone rang. While I was looking at tired-looking, used books on native Americans, Wesley answered:

"Yeah, hey, George. There's a guy in here looking for work."

"..."

"Yeah, got all his teeth. Shoes on the right feet, both tied. Got a right and left foot. Not two rights. He's tall so he can stack books too. Yeah, I'll write his name and number down."

I sure hope George calls.

Liz and I rented a not so quaint apartment in a not too shabby looking area of downtown. Except for the abundance of churches all within about a block of each other and the Hood Mortuary, the neighborhood lends itself to old, made-up ladies and young, urban professionals.

Our neighbors. Hood Mortuary.

Part of the Animas River Trail