A Place to Call Our Own

Miles City, Montana is like this: ranchers, ranches, ranch homes, and a Burger King. Americana, and a fucking Burger King. One time I tried to get a plastic cup from the place, just a plastic cup, and I sat in the drive-thru for an hour. Every single minute of a goddam hour, and they still wouldn't give it to me. I asked for the manager, who wasn't there, and they musta put the phone up to the damn loudspeaker, 'cause it kinda sounded like she was on the phone anyways. She told me that they'd have to charge me 35 cents for a cup with just ice in it. I told 'em that I didn't have 35 cents in change and that, it bein' February, I could step out of the car, grab a handful of ice and put it in a red Solo cup for less than 35 cents. They told me that they accepted credit and could only sell me a cup with ice in it for 35 cents. I told them that it was for my kid, Benjamin, and the answer didn't change. 35 cents, ice in a cup. I told them that the manager over in Hardin used to let me get cups for free when I was workin' in the town, but they didn't back down. So, I bought a pop and paid for it on my State Bank of Montana Credit card. Worst goddam Diet coke I've ever had in my life.1

It's like my wife Eunice keeps telling me, “you want to get somewhere all civil, you gotta go west to Billings.” I really don't wanna go west to Billings, 'cause everybody else goes there, and I ain't got no plans to go west or east in the near future, 'cause that's where everybody else is. I like Miles City, I've got bills and a house here, so I figure I'll stay. Besides, when whoever shaped Montana shaped it, I reckon they did so to make it look like an arrow pointing west, to tell everybody where they were goin' because everybody already knew where they'd been, and if they didn't know, they needed to get acquainted with the rush real quick. And, they needed to know that there ain't nothing special about Washington state or Oregon; all they've got there are fuckin' huge trees and militia groups that use the words “conservative,” “God,” and “army” more than the Bible and the Federal government combined.2

But Eunice, she's got the jitters. She's tired of bein' the high school's mornin' secretary and the afternoon secretary at Jefferson Elementary. She's tired of Custer county bein' so full of “American Legion and VFW cronies,” her words of course. She don't dare say that stuff much around me, 'cause she knows that I'm a veteran and damn proud of it. She doesn't like me in my “sulky moods.” I just shut the hell up during those times. She know I get pissed about her wanting to move over to Billings, too, but it don't stop her from bringing it up. She wants to move there, and I know it. 3

“Got an aunt,” she says, “that could set us up real respectable.” Her words of course, 'cause there ain't nothin' respectable about that aunt of hers and she knows it.4

“You could set up as a roofer there, too, where they're building,” she says over the dinner table. I don't like to get pissed off in front of the kid, so I don't. Again, that don't stop Eunice. “And they've got better hospitals. You could have them work on your medical...'problem,' since you came back from Desert Storm.” That's a flashpoint subject too, but I don't like getting angry in front of the kid. So, again, I don't.5

“We've lived here since before I got back from overseas in '92, and we ain't gonna move,” I say, “I don't wanna file the papers with the vets office. I like them mailin' checks here, and I know they don't wanna change either. I'm stayin' in this house.”6

“Well, Billings is along the tracks, so you could come back and forth any old time you wanted to visit with your friends.” I did real good not getting mad.7

“The newsman said that this ain't a good time to sell houses. We'd never be able to unload this place, especially since it needs a new roof and some other fixing.”8

“Well, Bill, you don't wise up to me soon, you're gonna be shit outta luck and won't be able to see Ben as often as you do now.”9

She said I'd be shit outta luck. And I was.