Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Thus it was that I ended up in Sundance, thirty miles further down the road. Sundance is
the town from which the Sundance Kid took his name, and from all appearances that was
the only thing in town worth taking. He wasn't born in Sundance; he just spent some time
in jail there. It was a small, charmless place, with just one road in and one road out. I got
a room in the Bear Lodge Motel on Main Street, and it was pleasant in a basic sort of way.
The bed was soft; the television was hooked up to HBO, the cable movie network; and the
toilet had a “Sanitized for Your Protection” banner across the seat. On the far side of the
street was a restaurant that looked acceptable. Clearly I was not about to have the Saturday
nightofalifetimehere,butthingscouldhavebeenworse.Andindeedverysoontheywere.
I had a shower and afterwards as I dressed I switched on the television and watched the
Reverend Jimmy Swaggart, a TV evangelist who had recently been caught dallying with
a prosti tute, the old rascal. Naturally this had put a certain strain on his credibility and he
had taken to the airwaves, more or less continuously as far as I could tell, to beg for mercy.
Here he was once again appealing for money and forgiveness, in that order. Tears rolled
from his eyes and glistened on his cheeks. He told me he was a miserable sinner. “No ar-
gument there, Jimbo,” I said and switched off.
I stepped out onto Main Street. It was “ten of seven,” as they say in this part of the world.
Theeveningwaswarmandinthestillairthearomaofcharbroiledsteaksfloatedoverfrom
the restaurant across the street and berthed in my nostrils. I hadn't eaten all day and the
whiff of sirloin made me realize just how hungry I was. I smoothed down my wet hair,
needlessly looked both ways before stepping off the sidewalk-there was nothing moving
onthe roadforat least ahundredmiles ineither direction-and went over.Iopened the door
and was taken aback to discover that the place was packed with Shriners.
The Shriners, if you are not familiar with them, are a social organization composed of
middle-aged men of a certain disposition and mentality-the sort of men who like to give
each other hotfoots and pinch the bottoms of passing waitresses. They seem to get drunk
a lot and drop water balloons out of hotel windows. Their idea of advanced wit is to stick
a cupped hand under their armpits and make farting noises. You can always tell a Shriner
because he's wearing a red fez and his socks don't match. Ostensibly, Shriners get together
to raise money for charities. This probably is what they tell their wives. However, here's
an interesting fact that may help you to put this claim into perspective. In 1984, according
to Harper's Magazine, the amount of money raised by the Shriners was $17.5 million; of
this sum, the amount they donated to charities was $182,000. In short, what Shriners do is
get together and be assholes. So you can perhaps conceive of my disquiet at the prospect
of eating dinner amid a group of fifty bald-headed men who are throwing pats of butter
around the room and setting fire to one another 's menus.
