I honestly hadn’t thought about any
of these guys in years. Maybe four or five, heck, I can’t even pin it down. I
was taking out the trash when Karen came running out, she was all in tears, and
hysteric. She had never even met Teddy. I always intended to go show her
Jackson, but it never happened. Maybe it would’ve down the road, but she’d
never get it, she’d never understand. It’s not what it once was. The beautiful
edges of the earth, slices of paradise getting eaten up by the classless, no
shit giving uppity up. They roll through a town credit cards blazing, and run
out the local population. They wring out any culture, and divide communities
into overpriced overly modernistic high window boxes with a twenty-car garage.
It’s really a travesty.
But, Teddy, he was one with Jackson,
he was the real deal. That is one guy who really truly thought he could do
anything at any time under any circumstance. He worked his ass off, did every
job he could, and never complained a bit. Always a lighthearted kind of guy,
seeing the beauty in the unimaginable. But he lived hard, you know? He lived
like he didn’t need to, and eventually it would catch up to him, everyone knew
that.
I caught the first plane out that
morning for Idaho Falls out of SeaTac, and rented a car and drove over the
pass. Luckily the snow had melted for the most part so it was a breeze. I went
into that funeral house and it was as if God had died. Jackson eerily ate me
up. I saw people that I never thought I would care to see again, and nobody had
changed one bit. Life just rolls by it seems, and sometimes it seems like
nothing really honestly changes. Maybe a tweak here and there, but real change?
No way.
I shook hands, looked at photos, did
the whole routine and thought it was time to walk around the town, see what
there was to see. Then I caught wind that there was a party at the Elks Club. I
hadn’t seen the boys at the funeral so maybe they were sitting in the dark
corner of the Elks Club still to cool to get
into the crowd.
I had just put my elbow on the bar
when Cliffy ripped me around. The man is just as ridiculous as I remember.
Donning a full matching track suit with splashed colors of black and neon, and
matching aviators, a climbing chalk bag with a 711 big gulp that was definitely
filled with rum and coke attached a belt on the outside of his track suit. I
still don’t understand. We found Rick at the end of the bar and all sat down.
Cliffy had been working at The Village on the day that Andy passed. Tragic the
whole thing is, he was doing a routine run down a usual, and something just
happened. Rick elegantly put it as,
“Shit
just happens.”
I
guess stuff just does, I don’t know. We chatted some more about usual things,
and then Rick headed out to receive a shipment at the ice cream shop, and
Cliffy made it clear we had to go see Pat at the gas station. This is shortly
after the waiter came over and asked if we were doing all right, and Cliffy
told the poor young guy that his friend had just died.. so. He was in that sort
of mood.
Cliffy, and I headed out to Jackson
Pass the Gas Station where Pat apparently just hangs out at. Greets people as
they walk in, shoot the stuff with the cook, annoy old Ms. Betty at the check
out. Just essentially flip the bird to the new
wave as Cliffy puts it. Cliffy’s car seemed like it was totally and utterly
on it’s own wave as well.
“Cliffy
what kind of car is this?”
“1994
Town and Country, don’t talk shit about the TC.”
“That’s
a bed built in the back?”
“Custom
pop top Bruce, fly me out to Seattle, and I’ll toss one on your son of a bitch
too.”
“Yeah,
yeah Cliff.”
“Hey
be careful in here. Pat will really bulldoze you. Bullshit headlock style.”
“What?
I’m confused Cliffy.”
“Remember
the Rumble in The Jungle?”
“Sure.
Ali and Frazier?”
“Just
like that.”
So
I apparently was going to get pounded against the ropes, and hit Pat with a
knock out, or just waste myself into oblivion trying to slug him, and get
smacked by him unexpectedly. Either way sounded miserable. We walked into the
gas station, and it was if
nothing had ever changed. There he was in the back giving the cook
pointers on how to cook the onions when he wasn’t even going to buy the coffee
in his own hand.
“Son
of a bitch, BRUCE!”
“How
are you Pat?”
He went on for a few thirty minutes or
so. Telling us every story of every time. But he finally got down to it. There
was to be an auction.
“Yeah,
the fucking auction, Cliffy, it’s on Monday. Classic Ted didn’t get together a
will or nothing, and he’s got nobody for it to go to so they’re auctioning off
his old spot. Probably going to get bulldozed to all hell, and get some big
ugly bitch built on top. Fucking parasites.”
It may have been rough, and crude. But
Pat was right. Jackson was getting lost to the money, the infinite trail of
greed. Some great times were held at Teddy’s some times that can’t be
explained, true youthfulness, true life. Those moments where time is never
ending, and every moment are real. Pat had more to say on the matter although.
“The
worst part is that it’s the last frontier, you know? Once Ted’s is place is
gone, Jackson is gone. Fucking manifest destiny kind of bullshit for these LA
and New York landroverin, north face donning sons of..”
“Bitches.”
I said.
Right
then and there I felt the switch. I hadn’t cared about Jackson until then. I
may had thought about caring about Jackson, but it wasn’t real, it wasn’t all
and complete true. I played the game, shook my head, and done what was
expected. Although, now, I wanted to fight. Now I knew what this place truly
meant to me. It was an unexplainable nascence in my life, a nostalgia that
isn’t really diagnosable.
The next morning came, and Rick,
Cliff, and I sat at the old booth at the Jackson Diner.
“Pass
some sugar packets, Bruce.” Cliffy said.
“Okay.”
“A
few more.”
“All
right.”
“Just
give me the whole thing.”
“Jesus
Cliff.” Rick said.
“Goddamnit,
I hate individual sugar packets.. takes me an hour to get my coffee going.”
Cliffy said.
Cliffy
seemed to have stayed in his funk.
“So
I think there is a way.” Rick said.
So
apparently there was. We were to collect signatures, and if we received enough
then maybe, and apparently we could get Ted’s place grandfathered in, and I
guess preserved. I took Rick’s word for it and sort of just went for it. I
don’t know if I actually ever truly believed, but it felt right to run towards
it delusional, and full of steam. Maybe something would happen. Who the hell knew?
But first I had to ask how I could help.
“How
can I help?”
“Just
sign a check for supplies or something.”
I
hadn’t really thought about it yet, but the auction was on the day I was
supposed to fly back home.
“Yeah,
Bruce, you can’t stay, right?” Cliffy asked.
“Well,
maybe, sure.” I said.
“Don’t
bother, Bruce. We get it. You don’t even live here anymore.” Rick said.
“Well
he can stay, if he’d like, Rick.”
“Doesn’t
mean I don’t care. Doesn’t mean that frickin stuff doesn’t piss me off any less
than you guys.” I said.
I
pointed out to a guy outside wearing a leather jacket with ridiculous amounts
of fringe, an oversized cowboy hat, massive sunglasses, and ripping a vape pen
till the end of time. Then he boarded his douche Porsche SUV to probably drive
back to his ski lodge he lives in five days out of the year, just for the hell
of it.
I think Rick saw it. He saw that I
cared. That now that I was here, and things all came to the forefront,
everything was realized. I now knew what this place had fully turned into,
because I saw how it affected the people around me, the people who I cared
about. People that taught me things I never could forget, nor would I want to.
We went around town passing out
fliers, and getting signatures at every place possible. Diners, gas stations, mom
and pop spots, the gun range, The Village, anywhere that anyone would care.
Only the real Jackson people. We worked as hard as we could, and ran with our
hearts, full of fire and hot-blooded emotion, because now we would make our
change, and reverse the crumbling of the town we called or call home.
We went to the Wart Hotel the night
before, we had to celebrate something. Even if this idea of ours didn’t work at
least for Teddy. At least for our memories, and least for his memories. We
apparently were to drink straight brown fire all night; whiskey by Rick’s choice,
just was Ted would’ve wanted. Rick, and Cliff went out to smoke so I hopped off
the bar stool and went to take a piss. I went down the hallway to the john and
found a photo collage on the wall. There we were, must have been nineteen or so
driving like hell right down past The Wart. Teddy was behind me getting towed
on skis, I was at the helm of that old red Volvo, that old red Volvo with the
purple door. Jesus Christ I thought, what happened to those times. What the
hell changed? Time changed I guess. Time rolled by the way time does,
inconsistently, and ever unpredictably.
The next morning we woke with earth
shattering hangovers, but we made it to the auction house. I didn’t know what
I’d do and how I’d do it, but I felt this animalistic urge to tell the sons of
guns, (meaning the parasites of the coasts), crashing in on our precious Jackson
that they were trying to destroy the only place where Jackson still existed.
That destroying Ted’s house would only mean that they were buying a plastic
Jackson, a god damn cardboard cut out.
“We
have some signatures, we have them all signed.” Rick bellowed as we opened the
doors to the auction room.
Pat
jumped up from the middle of the audience,
“Son
of a bitch!” He yelled.
I
ran up on stage and ripped that mic out of that nice man’s hands, and told them
how it exactly was, or, as it seemed in my mildly drunk, overly possessive
state of comprehension.
“Hi
all, my name is Bruce Strong. I was really good friends with the guy who used
to own this house, and many or all of you didn’t know Teddy. Many of you probably
don’t care. But I’m gonna
tell you anyway, because I’m still a little drunk. When Ted roamed these streets,
skis on his shoulder or case of beer in his hand, Jackson was him. I don’t know
what fancy fucking city you’re from, but it’s different here. We care about who we are, we care about our
neighbors, and the people of Jackson. And Teddy was Jackson. He was the legend
in every turn he made skiing down those Tetons, fly fishing the snake, running his dirt bikes, creating
wonders with his hands. I understand this is a pretty place with its big
mountains, and open plains. But, just remember that there are regular people
that live here. Real people, salt of the earth people, cowboys, and cowgirls, wranglers, hunters,
skiers, ice cream shop owners, plumbers, blue collar-working people, people
just trying to live. Ted worked almost all of those jobs. He was a real workingman;
I know that’s a foreign fuckin concept for all of you big wigs, but not here!
And you come in here with everything, with the whole damn world, and what does
Jackson have to compete with that? We are just trying to hold onto those few things.
Those few things that make it all go, make it all worth it. So, that’s why
we’re here! Let us have that one little piece, that little edge of the earth
that my friend, our dear friend, Teddy, called home.”
“Okay
then, Bruce, thank you.” The auctioneer said.
I don’t know what happened after
that, I went to my hotel, said goodbye to the guys and flew home. I swear I
blacked out in that auction room. I may have spilled every emotion, or none at
all. I just hope that I gave Teddy enough. Never have a met a man that collided
so much energy, so much life into a sole being. I hope those people heard that.
I hope they hear him whistling in the wind, down the clattering floor boarded
sidewalks of the town square, hearing him yelling in those snow topped hills
Jim Morrison’s poems turned to melodies, and feel that Jackson will never be
the same, even if they never knew it before.
