- Good Friday, 14 April 2017
- Main St. Louisville, Boulder County, Colorado
- Time 1255
- Elevation – 5,344’
- 70F, great sunshine, light breeze, cloudless
Warm weather seems to be the norm now with only occasional winter type days in Colorado. I have just finished an hour of Outlaw Yoga, an hour that was about turning it up to “10”. Now, I literally sit on Main Street. This could be Main Street in any town in America. I have a table outside a bar/restaurant and while I occupy a table for three, I am nearly invisible to everybody around me. I might as well be in the backcountry and only my server acknowledges me every fifteen minutes or so.
Immediately off my left elbow is a window with no pane. I could spit to the bar. To my right is enough space for two people to pass on the sidewalk. I could spit to the cars parked in the street. I’ve gone ahead and ordered a large, cold coke, a cobb salad (hold the black olives) and open my notebook and start making notes; on everything.
At the bar there is an open stool with a bag on it, adjacent is a patron, then empty stool, patron, open seat, man, open seat, man, open seat, man, open seat, then two men conversing. Personal space reigns supreme at the bar today for lunch.
At 1:02 my lunch arrives. Willie Nelson comes through the speakers. “God Bless Johnny Cash” bumper stickers adorn each table. Lady bike rider heads down the slightly sloping street heading south with her dog running beside her. A toddler emerges through the front door, enough of a gap to her mother that it startles me, as mom immediately tails behind to their car parked directly in front of the establishment.
There is a new sensation this week! Taste! Lovely saltiness of gouda cheese on my salad piques my tastebuds after an hour of sweating in a hot yoga studio. Romaine lettuce massages the insides of my cheeks as I chew. I hear, “How we doing over here” from the bartender inside. Waylon Jennings now takes over and in my mind I soon expect Kris Kristofferson to make an appearance.
A dog starts barking as middle school aged girls shriek south of me on my side of the street. For some reason there is no school today. I look at the colors of my salad noting avocado, bleu cheese dressing, bacon. A telephone rings from inside the bar, like a real old timey telephone ring like the rotary phone I had growing up as a child in the 70’s.
God Bless Outlaws Like Me plays from the bar. People keep walking up and down the street, quite a few entering the restaurant for lunch or drinks. A scent of perfume moves past and this is the first time during my reflective hours this year where I have smelled people.
A rumbling mass transit bus pulls to the curb just south of where I sit. Willie is back, now singing Pancho and Lefty. Now not quite 30 minutes into sitting here relaxing in the shade I finish my salad and order an ice cream sundae. As if on cue The Highwaymen begin to play and sure enough Kris has arrived in the house. Outlaws reign supreme today. If I was in Eastern Europe I could sit here for hours and not be bothered by the establishment. In America, I’m not so sure. Hence, justification for my ice cream sundae.
In the breezy shade it is a nearly perfect temperature. I am adorned in a short sleeved shirt, shorts and sneakers with no socks. A steel guitar sings and the soft clomp of broad wedged heels moves down the sidewalk, idle chatter emanates from inside. Traffic glides up and down Main Street. I look in to the bar and oddly a Virgin Mary candle sits just below a vertical wine rack on the bar.
1:29, my ice cream sundae arrives! Three scoops of local vanilla ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate syrup. As I eat I remember that I chew my ice cream. I’ve been told in the past that this is not normal.
The unmistakeable clatter of a skateboard behind me moves south on the sidewalk at the end of the block. The now quiet middle school girls move as a quartet north on the sidewalk and past me. Ten seconds behind a friend runs and squeals, setting off barking dog. Dog is in a car across the street, panting but all the windows and the back window to the SUV gate are open. Not enough of an offense to call the police, I guess. George Strait sings about heartbreak and divorce. Exiting diners discuss a crawdad boil.
Parking cars chirp after being locked, obediently waiting for their owner’s return. David Allan Coe now tells me that I don’t have to call him darlin’ and I realize that I know all these country tunes much too well. It takes me back to my father and working in his service station as a teenager, his trusty employee of many years always wanting to listen to country music. My father making comments about “dopey George Jones” and singing out a high pitched “Aaah-hahhhh” mimicking the local country music station. This brings about a silent chuckle and fond memories of both men, now deceased.
Shivers and chills now run through me after polishing off the sundae. With nine minutes left I’ve been writing almost non-stop. The weekend is here for a good number of people as attitudes are light and airy. The bus pulls up again to exchange passengers. At least the third car and perhaps the fourth parks at the curb outside the front door. A laughing couple moves south on the sidewalk. John Fogerty prattles on with an unfamiliar tune. Chairs bang inside as the waitress cleans a table. One of the empty chairs is now occupied and a gentleman who was earlier alone now chats with a buddy, each turned a bit on their stools as they engage with energy.
I look to the sky again and still there are no clouds, only a chemtrail making its mark in the blue expanse. Johnny Cash closes out my hour and tells me that “there ain’t no good in an evil hearted woman.” I guess I’d be hard pressed to argue with the man about that.