Mean Jean And The Cottontail Ranch

MEAN JEAN & The Cottontail Ranch

On the Road to the Grand Canyon Boatman’s Training Seminar river trip, spring 1981

            Hired. A real-live Grand Canyon River Guide. In the Bigs.

            Up till now, I didn’t really want to work there while the place still felt like a new lover: intimate, unpredictable, unknowable, magical powers, juicy.

Finally I did an AB (assistant boatman) trip with AzRa, hoping to get picked after five seasons guiding for Arta in California and Utah. Time for another non-committal misfit river rat to jump in head first, for better or worse, till death and all that.

            But first I must get to the BTS from the California foothills, escaping from where they’re drowning our Stanislaus river.

            Thus I hitch a ride from San Francisco to Flagstaff with Abe, another nice Jewish boychick, though unlike myself big, blonde, blue-eyed, handsome and built like a Catholic. He’s got wheels, and we both have trainee slots on the BTS, him through Big Yellow and me with AzRA.

            It’s a fourteen hour drive. We happen to be rigging tomorrow. Backroads and last-minute rushes being the way of our tribe, we drive through the night over a High Sierra pass, past Mono lake, down into the spring desert blooms of Nevada, winding and thumping over the potholes along remote two-lane Rt. 266 into the heart of the Basin and Range.

Abe is into Buddhism, but we can’t escape our genes. The tedious cowboy music on the shitty radio is driving me nuts. Thus, we Jews honor our ancient heritage – heading blind into the desert like Moses, debating and arguing every inch of the way.

            “So, I don’t get it. Why do you have to study for years and meditate to become a Yogi? Can’t you reach Nirvana just by being a good person? Gain wisdom on the streets?”

            I’m kinda half serious, but I’m also yanking his chain. Gullible people deserve as much. “I mean, why not some janitor somewhere? A good man. A wise man. A poised, honorable man who just happens to clean toilets?”

            This helps the miles tick along, at least for me, as well as keeping Abe’s blinking eyes open in exasperation.

            “No. You have to do the practice. Only through the practice can you reach Nirvana.”

            “Well, what about all those people who never heard about Buddhism? They goin’ to hell?”

            “I don’t believe in hell. They’ll just keep getting reborn until they discover Buddhism. Then they’ll get reborn until they master the practice.”

            “Sounds kinda monotonous, don’t it? Getting reborn? I mean isn’t that just Buddhist hell?”

            Abe’s mouth twists into a tight knot in the yellow glow of the dash. Keep the conversation going without expending too much energy, get a few more miles down the road, stay awake. Creosote bush and prickly pear flash by in the headlights, we pitch headlong through the sand and rolling hills towards our new lives. Reborn indeed.

            Abe’s latest response to my incessant teasing is, sadly, petulant silence. I have lost my entertainment, and baby neck threatens. As if on cue, a faint glow from something electrical way off in the distance announces our approach to the intersection with Highway 95, Lida Junction, where we will bear right towards Lost Wages.

            “Hmm,” says Abe. “I wonder if that’s a service station?”

            The light slowly resolves out of the blackness into a dimly illuminated billboard. One, single, red light bulb, nothing else for a million miles but sand and cicadas.

            “COTTONTAIL RANCH” is announced in peeling black and white letters on a wind-blasted red plywood background. We pull into a horizonless gravel parking lot in front of a double-wide trailer with a dim yellow lightbulb hanging over a metal door. Nothing else visible, anywhere. From this vastness a wooden porch, just big enough to fit one, rises two steps up to the door, affixed with a small wire-mesh window, weirdly glowing from within. You could park a hundred semis here if you were so inclined. Must be expecting a crowd.

            I get it pretty much right off. Abe, however...

            “You think they’re open?”

            I pause, glance over, trying to look nonchalant. “Well. Yeah. I’d expect they are.” I nod my head, a bit too amiably.

            “I gotta pee.” He looks at me. “I’d also kinda like a cup of tea. Whadya think?”

            “Oh. I dunno” I shrug. “Worth a shot I suppose.” I can be kind of a prick sometimes, but this could be fun.

            We emerge into the perfectly dark, perfectly empty lot in the middle of a perfectly boundless and gently pre-dawn cool desert. Just one other car, another beat up old sedan, adds texture to the scene. Abe leans towards the door, seeking a place to piss. Mr. Nirvana in his be-in-the-moment world. Me, I’m not really sure why he didn’t just pull his dick out and piss into the sand, but I’m now fully in one way or the other.

            I follow, eager for the show to begin. We reach the door, peek in through the wire mesh window, Abe knocks. Inside is a dimly lit bar, with a dubious apparition in curlers standing behind and leaning on it, facing a slight, middle-aged bald guy sitting on one of the barstools. Just the two of them, not two feet apart. He has a can of Bud Light, and is twirling it in his fingers. They seem to have just stopped talking. They’re just kinda there, him seeking The Truth in the top of his can of beer, her looking towards him but not really seeming to see him, smoke from her cigarette curling upwards from her gnarled fingers, a portrait in still life.

            They do not move. Not one single twitching muscle.

            Abe glances at me, knocks again, this time louder.

            After a pregnant pause during which Abe glances at me again, and I respond with another shrug (I am chock-full of shrugs this glorious evening), the curler thing which appears to be a female bartender in what appears to be a threadbare bathrobe turns towards the door with a scowl and shrieks “CANTYA READ!!??” Baldy never so much as twitches.

            We look up, down, side to side, bewildered. A tiny sign, faded and curled by eons of blistering sun and monsoonal rainstorms, six inches square and handwritten in faded ink comes into focus, taped just right of the doorknob:

            “Ring Bell For Service.”

            Inside, she stands there behind the bar, fist on hip, waiting impatiently for us knuckleheads.

            My eyebrows knit, I suck in my lips to squelch an emerging smile,. Abe reaches over to the bell and rings. Fate will have its way, Buddha or no.

            The scowl transforms into a huge grin, revealing a lack of the proper amount of teeth to support cheeks or chin. She takes a massive pull from her cigarette, strolls over and flings open our Door To Paradise.

            It seems we are no longer annoyances. We have evolved into Customers.  

            “C’MON IN, BOYS! MUNAME’S MEEEAN JEEEAN!” She has the setup instantly, ignoring my puny ass and slapping huge, handsome Abe on his back, which also serves to shove him inside the metal security door. I follow as inconspicuously as possible.

            “WHAD’LL YA HAVE??!! SIDDOWN!”

            Abe glances at me, half puzzled, half seeking assistance in his Dawning Of Budding Awareness.

            “Um. Well. Actually…I could use a cup of tea. Do you have any tea maybe?” he whimpers.

            “TEA??!!” Her eyes knit, but she doesn’t miss a beat: “SURE! YOU BET! WE GOT EVERYTHING HERE! ANYTHING YOU LIKE!”

            Her curlers bob up and down as the rest of her comes into focus; Yellow-toothed smile–all five of them–in a craggy face that reminds me of one of those savvy, take-no-prisoner, forever-waitresses you meet in greasy spoons on most lonely highways to nowhere. I’m squinting at the faded pink elephants on her bathrobe. As she slides away from us boneheads standing alongside the decrepit bar, I catch a glimpse of pink bedroom slippers with rabbit ears on her feet, flopping and shuffling along linoleum that most likely hasn’t revealed its original pattern in a long, long time.

            “Well, maam. Wouldya mind if I used your bathroom first?

            “SHADDUP AND SIDDOWN! TALK IS CHEAP AND TIME IS MONEY! GIRLS! COMON OUT AND INTRUDUCE YERSELVES!”

            Her voice is throaty, the kind that belongs to women who have drunk too much, smoked too much, seen too much. Like one of those waitresses–no bullshit world-wise mommas I’d marry in an instant if I only had the balls. I’m actually not really sure she’s ever spoken in a normal voice. Every word is an exclamation, keeping a tight grip on her jurisdiction for one more night. Kali the destroyer goddess.

            Abe is finally twigging, and starts to rise off the barstool, protesting.

            “Uh. Wait a minute. Sorry. I only came in to use the bathroom. I didn’t realize…”

            She reaches clean over the bar with scarecrow arms, grabs his shoulders, and shoves him back down onto the brittle, cracked, red, fake-leather stool. The whole decór is straight out of the fifties. Abe is looking rather stunned. Me, I’m enjoying the show and not feeling like a Judas, nope, not in the least. Mean Jean glances over at me menacingly. I shrug again. I’m in, if only because of my lack of appreciation of the true meaning of instant karma.

            A billion dark miles of desert gravel to pull over and take a piss in. No doubt he’s done it a thousand times before. But no. Like a moth to a flame.

Three women waltz in as onto a stage, stand in display under the smoky ceiling lamp, caricatures in exotic poses.

            “COMON! INTRUDUCE YERSELVES! TALK IS CHEAP AND TIME IS MONEY!”

            Our bald guy has quietly disappeared along with any semblance of innocence. The tall skinny redhead on the right in the red sequin mini-dress takes one step forward on stiletto heels.

            “Hi, I’m Greta.” She executes an awkward turn, steps back into line.

            Next, the middle one; worn, sulky, a diminutive, ageing Oriental gal in a clingy black dress, cigarette holder between her fingers with perfectly curling smoke straight out of some film noir, steps forward.

“Hi. I’m Kiko.” Her pirouette is inscrutable, all-knowing, like her eyes. She steps back.

            Finally, on the left, a youngish, plumpish girl. Brown hair, plain dress, forgettable name. I notice as she turns that she’s got rouge in between her shoulder blades.

            A nanosecond ticks by, wasting time and money.

            “WELL??!! YOU… BIG FELLA! PICK ONE!”

            Abe, trying not to look anywhere, cringes.

            “…All I wanted was to take a piss. Really!”

            “TALK IS CHEAP AND TIME IS MONEY! PICK… ONE… NOW!!!!” She will clearly exterminate like an insect anyone dumb enough to disobey.

            Sheepishly, whispering and spent, Abe tries the earthly and mundane one last time.

“I really gotta go.”

            “YOU CAN’T JUST GO TO THE BATHROOMS UNLESS YOU’RE HOLDING ONE OF OUR GIRL’S HANDS. WE GOT DOBERMANS BACK THERE. THEY’LL EAT YOU FOR BREAKFAST UNLESS YOU’RE HOLDING A GIRL’S HAND! YOU WANNA PEE, PICK ONE!”

            Red Sequins. Gotta happen.

            Abe barely manages to raise his hand. Points. I smile, winning a bet with myself.

            Red Sequins sashays up to Abe, takes his hand smiling an oh-so-fuck-me sort of smile, drags him off towards the back. They disappear.

            Jean turns to me, last man standing. I smile broadly. Happy to be alive.

            “I don’t think you understand, Jean. My naive friend Abe here, he actually just wanted to take a piss. I only came along for the amusement.”

            “PICK ONE! RIGHT THIS MINUTE! PICK WONNNNNN…!”

            Thinking to save her from having a coronary, I offer “So... um… how much do you charge, say, for a blowjob? Just out of interest?”

            Her face is about to explode. I’m sure of it. Horrible bits of wrinkled flesh all over the place. I should stop. Instead I say “Darlin’, I don’t have to pay for sex. I’m a Grand Canyon river guide!”

            That bit of shameless chutzpah goes right over her head. I’m going to hell for sure. Or perhaps another million rebirths anyway. I offer “Fine. Whatever. But you’re wasting your time. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

            I look back at the two remaining working ladies, waiting impatiently. I don’t think I could cope with the hard über-reality of Oriental One. Clearly she’s seen way too much for a green punk like me. Rouge-Between-The-Shoulder-blades sidles up, takes my hand, leads me towards the back and its Worldly Delights.

            We enter door number one into a small but lavishly accoutered room. Plush fake-fur black carpet, sunken Jacuzzi taking up most of the floor right in the middle, mirrors for walls and ceiling, dim lighting emanating from God knows where.

            “Comon, big boy. Let’s party.”

            “Um. No. Thanks for the offer, though.” I shrug. “So, uh, tell me a little about yourself. Where do you live when you’re not working?” Her eyebrows draw together. “How much do you charge, say, for one quick screw?” How ‘bout an all nighter?”

            She takes my hand, looks at me strangely. “Maybe you don’t like this room too much, perhaps another?”

Behind door number two is a perfect replica of a cheesy motel room, complete with hard, bouncy twin bed and paintings from some factory in Des Moines.

            She flops down on the bed, bouncing jerkily on the firm springs. Drops one shoulder strap. I’m kinda feeling a tad pathetic all of a sudden.

            “Comon, big boy. You wanna party?”

            Surely she has another line.

             “Well, actually, like I told Jean, I don’t need to pay for sex. I get all I need at work, kinda like you but different. Comon, I’m curious, how much, for, say, a blow job?”

            Before she can respond to my swaggering absurdity, the doorbell rings.

            She starts, jerks bolt upright, pulling her shoulder strap back up in a panic. Sits there staring at the door. I no longer exist.

            “Well, girl. There’s a paying customer out there. Go get ‘em.”

            “Get out of here! Right this instant! I can’t be seen with you!”

            “Um… the Dobermans?”

            “There aint no fuckin’ Dobermans you moron. Get. Outta. Here!”

            I grasp the doorknob, peek outside a tad nervously. As far as I can see, no glowing brown eyes, pointy ears or big sharp teeth. Abe is sitting on a stool back at the bar, head down, staring at a can of Bud in his fist. Jean, meanwhile, is at battle stations, looking towards the front door.

            “COMON IN! MUNAME’S MEAN JEAN! WHADDLE YA HAVE?...”

            A mousy middle aged truck driver in pressed jeans and a checkered shirt gets dragged over to a barstool. Baseball cap, brown suede lace-up boots. Dressed to kill.

            He barely whispers “Um, what do you have?”

            “COORS AND BUD. WHAD’LL YA HAVE?”

            “Um. How ‘bout a Coors, please?”

            “OKEE-DOKEY. NOW WE’RE TALKIN’. HERE YA GO!” I quietly join my cowed comrade, nervously scanning for big, black dogs until I reach the relative safety of the far end of the bar.

            “C’MON IN, GIRLS, INTRUDUCE YERSELVES!”

            “Oh. Well. Actually, I’d kinda like a little time, you know, relax a bit.”

            “TALK IS CHEAP AND TIME IS MONEY!... GIRLS!...”

            My pudgy one appears, as well as the Oriental gal and a new one, quite pretty in a sad sort of way. They do their step-turn-intro thing.

            I figure the sad one.

            “Please. If you don’t mind. I’d just like to drink this beer for a few min…”

            The glare fixes him in place. “TIME IS MONEY….PICK ONE!”

            “But…”

            “I SAID… PICK WONNNNNN!”

            Momentary silence. He points a finger. Sad one walks up, yanks him right off his stool, leaving it twirling, empty, tragic and alone. I chalk up another winning inner bet.

            Abe glances over to me, jerking his head in the direction of the Doorway Of Fate. Before I have a chance to respond, Oriental Woman walks up to me, puts her arm through mine, looks up at Jean, who has just lit the next in a chain of smokes.

            “Give me a shot at him.” She winks at me.

            Jean couldn’t give a shit. She says nothing, borrows one of my shrugs, takes a long, tired-of-all-this-crap pull on her cig. Asia walks me towards yet another room. There seems to be no end to these rooms.

            This one looks like a men’s locker room. No shit. Line of showers, tiles, lockers along the walls, bright hanging metal ceiling lights, benches. Ah, benches… of course!

            “C’mon, big fella. You wanna take showa?” She asks in a cloying Asian accent as she slowly drops to her knees at my feet.

            “So, now, comon. Really. How much would a shower cost, anyway”

            Clearly disappointed, she rises. “Hunred bucks.”

            “Now we’re talkin’. What about a blow job?”

            “Seveny fi.”

            “So, where do you live in between workin’ here?”

            “We live in Vegas. It’s illegal there. We gotta drive way the hell out here to Bumfuck Egypt jus to work.” She’s figured out my ass, given up, is leading me back to the bar. Just before we get within Jean’s earshot, I conspiratorially ask “An all nighter?”

            “Four hunred.”

            Jean’s on a bender. Must be near closing time. Show’s over, time to slink out.

            Out in the cold parking lot, last of the stars blinking out, Abe frantically fumbles for his zipper, peeing on his right front tire, dripping a bit on his shoes. Head back, hand on fender to stabilize. I know the feeling.

            “Ahhhhhhhhh…”

            “So… what the heck? You didn’t get to piss or what?”

            “I couldn’t. She gives me some line about Dobermans, leads me into the bathroom, insists on holding my willie while I pee.” He shakes his head. “Got hard. Couldn’t piss, dammit.”

            “And?...” I grin…

            He shoots me a scowl, like what an asinine question that was.

We just made the load-out to the infamous BTS of 1981, which unexpectedly initiated some of the first deep camaraderie between motor and oar boatmen and women, a community with deep tribal bonds regardless of method of propulsion through life’s turbulence and chaos. I am grateful those bonds were lasting and true. We forged the best of friendships, sharing secret hikes and ancient pots and baskets, unconventional rapid runs, plus a drop of single malt and bunny suits at dawn for Easter. Add in a pinch of beach lectures from the premier naturalists of the day, and the usual plethora of “no shit” stories over beers.

Thus began my career, which lasted a charmed lifetime of forty seven years. I honestly wouldn’t mind being reborn and getting to do it all over again.