I could be the only presidential candidate whose driver is adamant that he’s voting for an opponent. Doug is an Obama Supporter. As he drove from the Black Hills into Wyoming he ranted: “The Republicans couldn’t be luckier: A) There’s a hurricane that detracts from the Palin debacle. B) The hurricane spares New Orleans, detracting attention from the administration’s bungling of Katrina. There’s a part of me who would have loved to see New Orleans on the brink and seeing all the Republicans rushing to Louisiana and sticking their fingers in dykes.”
I listened to Doug’s lecture, when he caught his breath; I laid the Dirty Bum’s dirt on my chauffeur. “Outside of all the other controversy around dear Sarah, I have second hand information from an ex-resident of Wasilla alleging that when she was mayor she had a fling with the fire chief. Of course that’s an allegation, but an interesting one at that.”
Doug almost drove off the road. “Did you tell anyone?”
“I’m not into flinging mud. If I can learn about this, I’m sure bigger organizations than mine will find out.”
We continued southward across the high plains, passing occasional churning oil wells on distant hills. Ten miles south of Lusk, we visited the only monument I know of honoring a prostitute. Charlotte Sheppard, nicknamed Mother Featherlegs. Her pink granite monument erected in 1964, is inscribed: “Here lies Mother Featherlegs. So called, as in her ruffled pantalettes she looked like a feather-legged chicken in a high wind. She was roadhouse ma’am. An outlaw confederate, she was murdered by “Dangerous Dick Davis the Terrapin”.
A caveat to the story goes that on the day her monument was erected, there was a reenactment of the Cheyenne-Deadwood Stage Run. Her pantalettes were on display upon the monument. That day they disappeared. Years later, in 1990 there were found hanging in a Deadwood Saloon. The story goes that a “determined posse of Rusk residents raided the saloon” recovering the treasure.
Cursing, I told Doug, “I forgot to campaign in Deadwood. What would Al Swearengen think?”
I taped a Robert “100” to the tombstone before returning to Doug’s jeep.
With a thirst aided by the arid air of the high plains, we stopped at the Main Street Saloon in Torrington and tipped one back in honor of the prostitute and another for the infamous Deadwood Saloon owner.
Across the North Platte River, we stopped at the Trail bar. I wrote off our first stop, as Doug spread the Palin rumor to the Cowboys and wannabes in Main Street Saloon. I was having regrets for opening my mouth. I didn’t want gossip interfering with my message.
Immediately, I fell into stumping mode, and to his credit, Doug held his tongue, for a while. In the midst of a query about stem cell research, Doug hobbled away and within minutes was arguing with a boisterous rancher with boots, belt buckle and cowboy hat as loud as his voice. I excused myself and separated the two before the Rancher wore one of Doug’s crutches.
“If you can’t be civil, don’t talk politics in a bar,” I scolded my driver. “Why do you care what a redneck thinks? I am trying to get a message out, not tell someone how ignorant they are because they don’t agree with me!”
“Sorry, I get a bit passionate.”
“The Democrats and Republicans get enough attention, this is about my campaign. If you can’t talk about my quest, shut up and let me do the talking.”
Cheyenne: Late afternoon, we rolled into the Tumbleweed Saloon and ponied up to the bar. The happy hour crowd was ramping up and I saw a dozen potential votes. With Tall Blonde in hand, I circulated. With CNN’s coverage of the Republican Convention serving as background, introducing my campaign was simple. An hour later, in the midst of holding court around a buddy bar, an argument started at the bar. I didn’t have to look to know who was involved.
The bartender eighty-sixed Doug. I excused myself and met him at the jeep. With a flurry of drunken curses, he unlocked the Jeep and slipped inside. I opened my door, reached in, retrieved my backpack and bid my hotheaded friend farewell. “Thanks for the ride.” I shut the door and headed back inside. I didn’t want Doug’s distraction.
I stumped into the night and the crowd dwindled. Satisfied that I met success, I left the Tumbleweed behind. Stopping at a C-store, I loaded up on some snacks before making my way to the rail yard. After a little search, I found my ride to Colorado. I hunkered into a boxcar and waited for the train to roll.
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