Dodge City, Kansas - April 16, 2014
I always thought Hobson’s Choice was a no win choice between
two terrible outcomes. It is not. Hobson’s Choice is the choice between take it
or leave it. It seems Thomas Hobson was
a stable owner In England in the 1500’s.
He would rent horses out to customers who were given the choice of
taking the horse in the stall nearest the door or taking none at all.
A choice between two bad options is known as Morton’s
Fork. I’m serious. Never heard of Morton’s Fork. I myself thought it was a utensil at a
steakhouse. Wrong! Again back in England, John Morton the
Archbishop of Canterbury, when Hobson was renting horses, had a theory about
paying taxes. If a man living modestly he
must be saving money and could therefore afford taxes. If, on the other hand, a man lived extravagantly
then he was obviously rich and could afford to pay taxes as well. You see, Morton’s Fork is actually the choice
between two terrible choices.
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| Cadillac Ranch with grandkids |
So my choice seems clear except for the fact that I have
been to Amarillo six times in the last couple of years. It’s on its way to skiing in New Mexico and
Colorado as well as the route to California.
The Cadillac Ranch is good for one visit and that visit should be with
grandchildren. Check. Did it two years
ago on the way to Taos. The Big Texan
Steakhouse is not exactly Gibson’s (my favorite steakhouse in Chicago.) It’s a sprawling WalMart size joint that from
the outside is the kind of place that gives tacky a bad name. The steaks may be great but I am tempted
neither by the ambience nor the prospect of getting 4 ½ lbs of meat for free,
so I have never stopped to dine. With a
little West Texas burn out from repeated visits I take a look at potential
routes through Kansas to Texas and notice one passes through Dodge City.
Dodge City home of Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson and the
fictitious Marshall Dillon and Kitty. I was
brought back to my days of sitting on the floor in front of the black and white
television watching Hugh O’Brien, Gene Barry and James Arness. Hugh O’Brien was the coolest one, mostly
because of the
Buntline Special, his Colt revolver with the extra long
barrel. I don’t remember him shooting
bad guys as much as banging them on the head with the thing. Bat Masterson was a close second in coolness,
not because of his gun but because of his derby hat and cane which made his
theme song cool – “He wore a cane and derby hat, they called him Bat, Bat
Masterson.” Easily the best theme
song. Wyatt Earp’s song was OK “Wyatt
Earp, Wyatt Earp brave courageous and true...” although me and my brothers
converted the lyrics to “Wyatt Earp, what a jerk” which we thought was
better. Gunsmoke I didn’t care for. No theme song. The only guy worth watching was Chester, the
sidekick to Dillon with the stiff leg. Chester
was cooler than Marshall Dillon and hotter than Miss Kitty, who never did it
for me.
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| Hugh O'Brien as Wyatt Earp and the Buntline Special |
That was it. It was
decided. I’d head for Dodge City and revisit the Old West.
Before that I had to do something about my flat tire tire. I get up early and head straight to TDK Tire,
thinking I will beat the rush. When I
arrive I feel more late than early. Moreover,
I feel like I have entered another world.
Pulling into the vast chain link fenced parking lot I see two things;
tires and trucks. TDK Tire is apparently
a well-known place to the true man on the road.
TDK is where blow outs come to die.
It is not your friendly Firestone Complete Auto Care Center that’s for
God damn sure. This is where guys in 18
wheelers go to get new tires when they are on the road and their steel belts
get ripped to shreds and they are behind schedule and have a load of perishable
fruit they are hauling. It is a world
where its still socially accepted to smoke cigarettes and actions speak
stronger than words. I park well away
from the vehicles which consists of those massive 18-wheel semi’s, heavy duty
tow trucks and imposing vehicles whose purpose I can only guess. They all point towards a large garage with
open oversized doors, presenting the dirty back of a long haul truck in
each. I enter the door marked service
department on the far right of the building to a room that looks more like a
1950’s barbershop. A worn linoleum floor
empty except for aluminum rail chairs with cracked vinyl seats lined up against
three of the four walls, filled with men in heavy jackets drinking bad free
coffee from styrofoam cups, speaking only when addressed; waiting. Waiting for when their trucks will be ready
to roll again. Behind a counter is a
tall man sitting on a barstool like chair flanked by the only woman in the
place. She is young, not unattractive
but the product of a hard life. He books
the orders, collects the money while she seems to be in charge of something
having to do with getting men and materials in the right place. In front of her sits an old microphone, a
computer and an ash tray. I tell the
man that Camping World told me that they had my tire in stock as I hand him a
slip of paper with the specifications written in pencil. He turns to his dusty, ancient, fat computer
monitor, lays my slip of paper on top of a keyboard that has survived countless
coffee spills over the decades and begins to hammer on the keys. “Nope, we don’t have that tire,” he says.
Typical. Camping
World assured me that TDK had them in stock.
Before I can even respond he says, “We got something just as good we can
put on there. Different make, same
size.”
“Sounds good,” I reply.
“Sit down. We’ll let
you know.”
He never mentions what he will let me know nor how much they
cost yet I feel I am in good hands. This
is a guy who has been fitting tires on trucks for years. He does not need from me a lecture about how
I gotta get on the road. He has heard it
all. Nor is price much of a factor for
me or any of my fellow roadmen. I gotta
have a tire just like them. This is not
a place to haggle over price. I am certainly
confident that TDK is not squandering money on their office furnishings. I sit down with my new peer group, an almost
even mixture of Hispanic and white men who like me are here at TDK Tire by
necessity not choice. They are mostly
unshaven with layers of clothes on. Men
who are accustom to getting up early when it is dark and cold and shedding
layers as the day wears on. I feel a strange
yet secure bond with this group. We are
all sons of the highway as well as victims.
We all need to make time but we all know there is nothing that will
hurry the process, so we might as well shut up and have a cup of muddy, free
coffee, which is exactly what I do.
“Thomas” is shouted in 15 minutes.
“Take ‘er up around to the open bay on the far side and
we’ll fix ‘er up,” says the man as I approach the desk. I have no idea what an open bay is or what
fix ‘er up means. He hands me an old
computer sheet that came out of one of those old printers where you rip the
edges off that guided the printer. “Pay
around the corner.”
I turn the corner and here sits yet another woman, a not
unattractive Hispanic woman who takes my credit card, has me sign the paper,
rips the perforated edges so we both have a copy with a spare copy for the file
and repeats the phrase, “Open bay on the far side.” She smiles and adds, “You’ll see it. It’s on the side of the building,” sensing, I
am certain, that she is dealing with a rookie.
I leave and walk to the area I am guessing is correct and
see the open bay. I was assuming that
open meant, “not filled with a truck”.
No, it meant, “not in the building but open to the air.” I am relieved that I can drive in and right
through this little area and won’t have to back up the trailer.
As I pull in a skinny young man in a greasy outfit that he
most certainly didn’t put on clean this morning comes out a door to the garage
and greets me like I am long lost relative.
“What are you doing, man? Getting
a flat on this baby so early in the camping season? You got a bad break right off the bat.” He doesn’t wait for a reply.
“Love these Airstreams.
Pull real nice. Great machines,”
he continues shoving a long jack under the Airstream. “Had a buddy who had one. Used to take it up in the mountains.” He proceeds to tell me about hunting trips
with locations, animals shot, locations, all the details, never taking a
breadth or waiting for a response even when he asks a question. “Ever use this baby when it get below
zero? Man, we did that one time and let
me tell ya’…” All this monologue is
takes place as a cigarette dangles from his lips. The only time he doesn’t speak is when the
air is filled with the high-pitched metallic screech of his pneumatic lug
wrench as it does it work, effortlessly removing the lugs from the tire.
“Yea, we had a lot of good times in that Airstream. Real good times,” he says as he pulls the old
tire off, put the new one in place, then falls silent as the wrench repeats the
process. In two minutes he does what
took me 50 to accomplish up in the mountains.
“OK, you can just back ‘er up.”
“Back ‘er up? Why can’t I drive straight through?” I think
to myself.
I turn and notice for that while I was listening to my lug
master’s monologue a huge semi has backed up to get a new tire, blocking my straight
through exit. I obviously flashed a look
of distress because, once again before I can reply says, “I’ll guide ya’ back.”
Having no choice. I
jump into the truck, take a deep breadth and begin to back up. My guy is standing behind waving me back with
the confidence that I have plenty of room.
As I start to back up a fellow traveler or maybe a co-worker, or a total
stranger for all I know passes close to him and the son-of-a-bitch begins to
talk to guy, looking at him as he waves me back. Even though his head is turned towards his new
best friend I figure I gotta be doing alright and continue to back up. I keep creeping backwards.
“HO!” The shout was authoritative and coming from a source I
could not see behind me. It was the
unmistakable voice of a person who has yelled, “HO!’ many times and never
without a reason. When you are in a
truck yard, surrounded by big machines and the men who drive them and someone
yells, “HO!”, trust me, you HO! I hit
the brakes. In the regular world, I am
accustomed to the fact that after you hear “HO!” you are generally confronted
by some jerk who comes up to you and shouts, “What the hell do you think you
are doing. You could of killed
someone.” But this is not the regular
world. This is the world of working
truckers where “HO!” means exactly that “HO!”
I turn and still can’t see the person who HO’ed me. I turn back to see my lug nut buddy who
yells, “That’s it. You got it. Have a good day.”
I put the F-150 in drive and literally never look back. Was I about to smash into another truck, or
run over an orange caution cone or someone’s foot. I’ll never know. I turn out of the yard’s exit past rows upon
row of massively big truck tires long since removed from their axils and
proceed to head east toward the land of the legendary gunslingers of the part.
Driving away from the mountains and into Kansas as you might
guess is a straight shot. I love
driving and love the changes in topography but I must admit Kansas and Nebraska
are the tests of my love. There is not
much in the might mid-west to hold one’s attention. Particularly on the Interstate. It
doesn’t matter much to me. The miles roll by as I cruise my 55 mph on
I-70 towards Wyatt, Bat and I am hoping Doc Holliday. The movie that featured Val Kilmore as Doc
Holliday has burned into my brain to such an extent that I can’t picture anyone
being Doc Holiday except Val just looking sick, pasty, ashen and on death’s
door, but still faster and tougher than any healthy soul miles around. It was either an acting tour de force or one
hell of a makeup job.
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| Val Kilmer needs a Doc |
I think of a real Wyatt Earp not Kurt Russell who with his
fake mustache struck me as perfectly ridiculous. Even Huge O’Brien, with his very cool
Buntline Special, left the impression, with his ultra-straight hat and overly
fancy gold vest, of something of a candy ass.
Even though I was only nine years old. I could see that clearly.
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| Steve McQueen and his cool gun |
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| A face that can give a kid bad dreams |
I gotta throw Nick Adams as The Rebel, Johnny Yuma in there
too.
I know what you are going to say. How about Bonanza, Maverick, Rawhide? Please!
Those series, although popular, were meant for parents to watch with
their kids. I know Clint Eastwood, but
take a close look. Known of those shows
had any attitude. Swagger. For mass
consumption. Steve McQueen has more insolence in his little finger than all the
Cartwright’s put together. My theory is McQueen, Conners, Boone, Nick Adams,
these guys saw the sixties revolution coming back in 1958. They were the age scouts for the rest of us –
defining cool. Even though they never
played a role in the 60’s (Maybe you can count McQueen a little) these guys educated
a generation they were never a part of. We
sat in front of that black and white and thought, “I’m going to be like those
guys one day.” I bet Jim Morrison liked
‘em too.
The best part of the drive, like the best part of any drive
was when you get off the Interstate, about half way through my 350 mile day
that is what I did to get to Dodge City.
Kansas State highway 23 is no scenic drive but it is rural Kansas at its
best. An occasional small town and a
towering cluster of grain silos are the only things that break mile after mile
of farmland. Since its early spring I
cannot even tell what these farmers are growing. I suppose it is wheat or maybe soybeans.
There is considerable majesty to Kansas. Driving along you spot an old farmhouse off
the road. (Is there any such thing as a
new farmhouse?) Invariably the only
trees in sight, planted by somebody’s grandfather, surround the home. Along with the trees is a cluster of
buildings. If there is any new building
it is the barn, which is no longer, a barn but a metal equipment shed, long and
low to the ground. It’s a structure
built for holding the tools of modern farming, tractors and combines, bought on
credit from J. I.Case or John Deere. The
old wooden barn designed for mules, horse and other farm animals were replaced
long ago, but the old house still stands.
There is no nostalgia here. This
is a practical decision to put money in the things that make money. Therefore the driveways are made of dirt, the
house has screens not air conditioning and a coat of white paint (they all seem
to be white) is decades overdue.
This may strike some as a dismal existence, but I find it
majestic, because inside that home lives a family that feeds the world. For centuries they have produced more food in
a year than they could possibly eat in a lifetime; year after year. Food that makes a journey that the family in
that house never sees. They hauled their
crop up to the grain co-op where it finds its way onto a train bound for
Chicago, where it is turned into bread for New Yorkers, or loaded onto barges,
floated down the Mississippi to be loaded again onto ships that make port in
St. Petersburg to feed Russian children.
And the family never sees any of this and the only luxury is a satellite
dish on the roof. I find that glorious.
I am, therefore, not bored but as the day starts to wane I
begin to wish for nothing more than a good steak in Dodge City. My first dose of reality is when I pull into
the Gunsmoke RV Camp. All but deserted
there are only a handful of trailers in the park, which sits conveniently on
the corner of Wyatt Earp Blvd. and Highway 50.
Built in the 60’s the attempt was to make the camp look like a western
set. Short of initial funds the attempt
feel short and now looks like it would be best suited for the backdrop for a
paintball park.
Unhooking the trailer I notice that three more travelers
have arrived off the road looking as beat as I do. This is not a day for cooking. I check in at the front desk and ask my host
where I can get the best steak in town.
When he hesitates, fear strikes my heart.
“If he says Applebees,” I think to myself, “I’ll jump back
in the truck and do the rest of the 450 miles to Fort Worth tonight. “
“Montana Mike’s right down on Wyatt Earp,” he says.
I decide the reason for the hesitation is the guy probably
hasn’t eaten out in a while. Probably
hasn’t been down Wyatt Earp Blvd. in a while either. I thank him and hit the trail, as they say in
Dodge City. I drive down the four lane Wyatt
Earp Blvd. past the Holiday Inn, Dairy Queen and O’Reilly Auto Parts. Reality slowly dawns.
Wyatt Earp was the assistant deputy marshall in Dodge City
in 1878. It’s true that Dodge City,
Kansas was a wide-open frontier town back then.
It is also true that the cemetery was named Boot Hill because the people
buried there “died with their boots on.”
What is also true, however, is Wyatt Earp didn’t get well-known until he
got to Tombstone Arizona years later.
Also, fact is, Tombstone, Arizona had a
Boot Hill, as did Deadwood,
South Dakota. The ugly reality is that
nothing much happened in Dodge City until Norman MacDonnell and Lucy’s husband decided it did 77 years
later. Who are they? Norman MacDonnell, a native of California
produced Gunsmoke. Lucille Ball’s
husband Desi Arnez, found Desilu Studios from the profits generated by I Love
Lucy, one of TV’s original sitcoms, produced Wyatt Earp at 20th
Century Fox Studios in LA. (Gunsmoke
was shot at the Spahn Ranch later made infamous as the hangout for the Manson
Family.) Regardless, MacDonnell and
Arnez never got any closer to Dodge City than old Charles Manson.
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| 20th Century Fox or Dodge City? |
Dodge City was made famous not by the actual Wyatt Earp who
past through for while around 1878 but by Hollywood who stayed and stayed but
never actually visited. (Gunsmoke ran
for 20 years and remains the oldest continually running primetime drama on
television, tied with Law and Order!)
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| Dodge City or 20th Century Fox? |
What were the citizens of Dodge City to do? They invented their past. For example, only 30 people are actually
buried in Boot Hill. Most are unknowns,
thrown into graves not due to a famous gunfight but because they were vagrants
who died. They died with their boots on
because well, they died with their boots on.
So Dodge City erected, plaques in memory of legendary western figures,
known of whom are buried there. You have
to give something for the 1960’s tourist to stare at.
Dodge City went about creating a Dodge City that looked more
like the Dodge City on the 20th Century Fox lot than it ever looked
like in Dodge City. And that is what I
see as I roll along Wyatt Earp Blvd. – a vintage 1960 faux town, fashion after
a movie set, that was fashioned after a town that actually existed where the
faux town now stands.
And just beyond all this is Montana Mike’s. In my dismay I don’t even hit the brakes.
Fine dining featuring your knife and fork rolled tight in a paper napkin. No Montana Mike’s for this boy. I continue on and spot the Central Station
Sports Bar and Grill where I get my steak at the bar. Not a bad place, considering that in lieu of
the big steak knife I pictured using during dinner tonight I am instead muchin’
down on a Morton’s fork of my own making.
The choice was choose the shortest route, 750 miles from
Denver to Fort Worth and cruise through Amarillo yet one more time, or drive
100 miles out of my way to Dodge City.
As I sit eating my steak I still have 450 miles ahead of me, a long day
tomorrow, but still I have no regrets with my Morton’s Fork. Dodge City didn’t turn out to be the Dodge
City I was hoping for, but there is one thing I am of which I am positive. I took the road less traveled. When he took the road less traveled in his
poem Robert Frost said, “it made all the difference.” I find it interesting that I took the road
less traveled. I wonder, down the road,
will I take the road less traveled? If
today is any indication, that is my inclination. So, I had to think, as I finish my glass of
merlot, pay the check and prepare to drive back down Wyatt Earp Blvd. to my
Airstream home, in space 103 of the Gunsmoke RV Park, will I take the road less
traveled as my future unfolds.
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