Four guys arrive in a tiny Wyoming town. This may sound like the setup to a mediocre joke, but it isn't. It is me reusing a blog intro for comedic effect. It is more like a Shenzhen factory suicide net: Seems like joke. Isn't.
We find our hotel without issue. Across the street from it is The World's Largest Jackalope Exhibit. We are all eager to see this mythic animal, but it is too late tonight. We are all tired. It is around 9pm, and we need to find a place to eat.
The woman in charge of the hotel attempts to sell us a room $10 more expensive than the one we reserved, saying it has more room and that she'll give us a military discount. It works. We tell her we are hungry, so she calls her friend Harley's personal cell phone to check if Harley's restaurant (The Cobbler) is still open. She looks out her window to check the status of another restaurant, the Outlaw Cafe. More reminders of the size of this town.
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| Exhibit A: The bustling downtown scene of Dubois, Wyoming. The road you see is also an interstate. The only thing more eye-catching than the sleek, modern buildings are the endless throngs of pretty girls. |
We unload some things in the room and proceed to The Cobbler, which is a little farther down the road than Outlaw Cafe. We get there just as Harley is closing down -- out of luck. Outlaw Cafe it is, then.
The portly, mustachioed man running Outlaw Cafe is the host, chef, and waiter of the place -- that's judge, jury, and executioner, in that order. When we walk through the door of Outlaw Cafe, he is in complete control of our fate. In the moment we cross that threshold between Outlaw Cafe and the rest of Dubois, a silent conversation occurs as we lock eyes:
Him: I own this place. I do everything in this place. Consequently, until you leave, each and every one of your wretched souls is mine. For these few moments, I own all of you. They say the customer is always right. Well in this place, there are no customers. You are my peasants. I am your king.
Me: Would you like that soul before or after you take our orders? I am pretty hungry.*
He sits us down and fetches drinks, 4 waters, then takes our orders. The Chemist is first. He orders a cheeseburger without lettuce, onion, or tomato. Outlaw Cafe God (henceforth, OCG) narrows his eyes and pauses.
Pauses.
The silence becomes uncomfortable. The atmosphere thickens. He asks a clarifying question, receives a response, laughs derisively. At long last, OCG scritch-scratches many words down on his notepad with a snort, then looks at The Sojourner for his order.
The Sojouner, now slightly intimidated, orders a Philly cheesesteak with no peppers, causing OCG's eyes bug out of his head in utter disbelief. Another clarifying question, another response, another shortform essay scrawled out onto the notepad. OCG looks at me. I keep my order simple, smoothly transitioning over to The Recycler, who orders hot wings.
"How hot you want 'em?"
"As hot as you have."
OCG cackles and stares at The Recycler. The message is clear: The temperature of these hot wings will be somewhere between hellfire and an exploding star.
"You sure?" He is eager, waiting for The Recycler to say yes, waiting to pounce on The Recycler and destroy every taste bud in his victim's body. The Recycler wipes the sweat from his brow and seizes upon the opportunity to retreat.
"Ackcherlly, give me the Sriracha instead."
OCG nods, a little disappointed, a little approving of The Recycler's conservative style. He goes into the kitchen.
There is no music in the Outlaw Cafe, only the beating of your heart reminding you of your own inescapable mortality. Lack of ambiance exacerbates the already-long wait time, during which the four of us discuss the nature of OCG. Perhaps he will serve The Chemist nothing but a slice of cheese smeared on a loaf of moldy bread and charge him a thousand dollars for the privilege. Then, when we protest, he'll call the Dubois sheriff and we'll spend the night in the town jail. I suggest, if this were to occur, that the four of us could easily overpower the sheriff, subdue him, and gain control over Dubois. That's right, officer, I am talking to myself now.
The other three do not agree with me. The sheriff is armed and dangerous, they say. He has tools to quell an uprising, they say. I ignore them, blinded by visions of power. Let's make Outlaw Cafe a real Outlaw Cafe. If the sheriff comes, we have four people -- one person suppresses each arm, nullifying weapon advantage, another one blinds the poor guy, and the fourth one can provide moral support by kissing a Dubois girl in the background. Plus, we have the element of surprise.
Sometime immediately after this hypothetical situation, one of us suggests the reason Outlaw Cafe doesn't play music is because it has hidden microphones, recording every word out of a customer's mouth. I loudly mention how I think Outlaw Cafe is the best restaurant I've ever had the pleasure to dine in, then return to planning treason.
After what seems like an unreasonable amount of time, which it probably was because he's doing everything around here, OCG exits the kitchen with our meals. Every order is 100% correct, looks good, and in large portion sizes. He generously provides the hottest hot sauce he has to offer on the side, in case The Recycler hates his own tongue. Asks us if we need anything else, we don't, he nods and leaves.
We all try the hot sauce. It isn't that hot. I mean it's kinda hot, but it's not the scorch-flesh-dead kind of hot I was expecting based on OCG's behavior. What an anticlimax.
Back to the hotel, and we finish unloading our stuff. I get the bed because everyone else wants to try out their sleeping bags.
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| Our room is small, but it does the job. Just like certain... other things. |
Monday morning, and we all take turns showering. The Chemist wakes up early, showers, and goes to do things I have no knowledge of. I wake up next.
I get into the shower, turn the water on. It is scalding hot, somewhere between hellfire and an exploding star, and it's impossible to turn it colder. I stand under a dribble of water, not able to withstand the temperature, and wash myself. Later, I will found out you actually can turn the water colder. I just don't know how to operate a shower.
After everyone showers, The Sojourner leaves the shower on its hottest setting in an attempt to steam up the bathroom in an attempt to iron his pants. Needless to say, this worked perfectly and resulted in the smoothest pair of pants I've ever laid eyes on. (Just kidding, I have no idea why you would believe that. If anything, his pants came out more wrinkled than before.)
We break our fast at The Cobbler, which is a biker gang hotspot. Most of the bikers are fat and bearded, wearing jeans under assless chaps. The Sojourner laughs at one biker's fashion choice before we realize all of them are dressed the same way, and they surround us. Plus, jeans under assless chaps is probably the most practical way for a biker to dress. None of us would know.
I don't understand the appeal of being in a biker gang at the time, but after reading the Wikipedia article on them, I have a better grasp over the interesting aspects of counterculture and belonging inherent to the outlaw motorcycle club dynamic. I wonder if there are any law-abiding motorcycle clubs. I wonder if Harley, the owner of The Cobbler, had a biker gang father named who named her after his motorcycle. It seems likely. The Cobbler is extremely biker gang friendly.
The food is pretty good, large portion sizes. Lots of bikers to feed. The four of us stand out dramatically, but thankfully are not harassed.
We decide to check out The World's Largest Jackalope exhibit in Dubois, Wyoming. The large, plastic Jackalope replica outside has an extremely humble man sitting on it:
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| We take a picture of him and move on. |
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| Pictured: A true patriot. |
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| Molly Moonstone has had a very sheltered life. |
The Sojourner gets a shot glass. I have nothing to say about this purchase.
Dubois is done with. Next stop, Yellowstone.
Part 4
*This silent conversation never occurred and I've fabricated the entire exchange. If the man in charge of Outlaw Cafe is reading, I sincerely apologize. You are a smart man making an honest living, and I admire that. The readers are vicious, though. Like jackals. They just want a corpse to feed on.
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