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