WEEK THIRTY-THREE
I regained consciousness on a park bench on a dusty street in the middle of nowhere. Looking around, I saw a hardware store, a grocery store, what could have been a smithee’s forge and – no shit – a general store called Pop’s. I got up, a little wobbly, but slowly made my way to Pop’s. I had never been in a store called Pop’s. I had probably never lived within 1,000 miles of a store called Pop’s. I was fascinated.
The general store was full of…general stuff. To my disappointment, the man behind the counter couldn’t have been more than 20…25 years old. Okay, he was wearing wire-frame glasses and cleaning a corncob pipe; still, not very promising Pop material.
“Hey, there, stranger,” the man greeted me. “What can I do you for?”
“You’re not a Pop,” I croaked.
“Well, now, looks can be deceiving,” the man amiably responded. “I could legally have kids…it’ll be seven years agone my next birthday.”
I tried to shake the mustiness out of my head. The man must have mistaken the gesture, for he responded, “It’s true!”
This was not what I needed to discuss, so I focussed, cleared my throat and said, “Where am I?”
“Buttfuck, Montana,” the man behind the counter proudly told me.
“Seriously?”
“Ayup.”
“Isn’t that…isn’t that just a euphemism for the middle of nowhere?”
The man behind the counter scratched behind his left ear thoughtfully. “Used to be. Until about 12 year ago. Town Council decided to change the name of the place. It’s an issue of civic pride through reappropriation, don’t you know.”
“Reappropriation?”
“Ayup. Iffen we say Buttfuck loud and proud and often enough, City Council figures it’d take the sting out of the epithet.”
“How did that work for you?”
The man motioned towards a corner of the store where there was a display of Buttfuck merchandise. I heart Buttfuck coffee mugs. I heart Buttfuck bumper stickers. I heart Buttfuck lapel pins. My Heart Belongs to Buttfuck wall and desk calendars. I heart Buttfuck t-shirts with an image of a man giving a thumbs up from the cab of a huge harvester in a field of wheat. At least, I think it was a harvester. And, I think it was a thumbs up. I couldn’t help but notice that none of the merchandise was priced at over a dollar.
“So, umm…you got a phone?”
“Nope. Sorry. There is a pay phone on the street next to the bench.”
“Fifty cents?”
“Ayup.”
“I only have a quarter.”
“Talk fast.”
“That joke wasn’t funny the first time.”
“Have I told that joke before and didn’t know it?”
“Umm…”
“Calling a loved one?”
“Yes.”
“You could just call collect…”
I was out of there faster than…some colourful heartland colloquialism.
I eagerly worked my way through the menu of choices the phone offered, entering the collect number and saying my name. The phone rang. Somebody on the other end picked up the receiver. “You have a collect call from,” the phone mechanically started. “It’s me! Phil!” I heard myself say. “Do you accept the charges?” the phone mechanically asked.
The person on the other end hung up.
After a couple of stunned moments, I dialled again. The phone rang. Somebody on the other end picked up the receiver. “You have a collect call from,” the phone mechanically started. “Phil,” I heard myself insist. “Husband and father to the Bentley family.” “Do you accept the charges?” the phone mechanically asked.
A man’s voice said something in the background. “I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing,” Gertrude said coldly, “but it isn’t funny!”
Gertrude hung up the phone.
This was not the warm reception that I had been expecting.
I dialled a third time. The phone rang. Somebody on the other end picked up the receiver. “You have a collect call from,” the phone mechanically started. “It really is Phil,” I heard myself plead. “Gertie, honey, you have to belie -” “Do you accept the charges?” the phone mechanically asked.
“Phil?” Gertrude tentatively asked. “Is that really you?”
“It really is,” I assured her.
“Do you accept the charges?” the phone mechanically asked.
“Yes!” Gertrude shouted. “Yes, I accept the charges! Phil, where the hell are you?”
“Buttfuck, Montana!” I enthusiastically informed my wife.
“If you’re in the middle of nowhere,” she said, icing over again, “why not just say so?”
“No. Really,” I told her. “The town is called Buttfuck. It’s a reputation reclamation thing – I don’t understand it either, but that’s not what’s important. I’m coming home, Gertie! After all this time, I’m finally coming home!”
“That’s great, Phil,” Gertie less than enthused.
“Can you wire me some money?”
SOURCE: Harpo’s
[http://harpos.org/archive/2012/08/19/dd-9000033]
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