Northern Exposure is not only a condition that plagues me, but it also is one of my favorite TV shows of all time. An aforementioned ex-wife and I were diehard fans and before our divorce, we contemplated visiting Roslyn, the nearby town where the quirky series was filmed. Tammy always held it against me that we never took time to visit.
So explains last night’s impulse to have Nate drop me at the freeway exit. In my own bit of quirkiness, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to campaign in Cicely, Alaska by proxy of Roslyn, Washington.
I trudged the two or so miles from my campsite to Roslyn. A true dork, I stood before KBHR and peered through the window, imagining Chris in the morning spieling away. I spent an hour walking about town, enjoying the sites. I was surprised to see Roslyn Café had reopened. The café is famous for the mural on the building’s side. I slipped inside and ordered breakfast.
It is said that truth is stranger than fiction in as much as fiction has to fight the battle of plausibility. Reality could care less about plausibility; reality just is, if there ever were any doubt about this concept, what happened next would serve testament. I stepped inside The Brick and felt my jaw hit the floor. The little blonde fireball to whom I once was married stood rag in hand, wiping the bar top. “Tammy?”
She looked up and had much the same reaction. She looked as if she saw a ghost; in a sense, she did. She rolled around the bar and slipped into my open arms. We embraced for a long moment. “Holy Shit,” she said stepping back. “What are… how are you doing Bobby?”
We sat down at the empty bar and caught up on our recent histories. “I looked you up in Oklahoma. They said you moved on to Wichita Falls; there, I gave up.”
Tammy said she remarried and they wanted a change of pace. “Since I couldn’t live in Alaska, I thought this would be the next best thing. Well, Montana is, but my husband was afraid of the winters. Southern boys.”
We reminisced the afternoon away. When she excused herself to visit the Ladies Room, I took a long sip from my tall blonde, left her a large tip and a Robert ‘100’ and slipped out of The Brick. I was never good at goodbyes, and I left before having to face a difficult one. With glassy eyes, I walked down 1st Street till I found the tracks.
Somewhere between Cle Elum and Teanaway I hitched a ride on a BNSF freight. Breaking habit, I e-mailed Alberton via my blackberry and asked them to contact Chuck, the BNSF engineer I made acquaintance with in Minnesota. I was interested in seeing if he was this far west so I could hitch a ride in an engine.
I rode all day. In Spokane, I left this ride, autographed the boxcar, and found a car destined for Sandpoint. I climbed inside and waited. I must have fell asleep, because I bolted up when the car lurched and started moving. My mind was occupied with my ex-wives, I still love them all. Each one of them is a good lady. But, marriage always altered the relationship. Something always happened. No longer, could I enjoy them for who they were and vice versa. Expectations always altered reality. In the political realm, I have no expectations; the reality I see isn’t distorted.
Sandpoint: I autographed my second car of the day before finding a motel. I checked in, showered and found a quiet bar that was about to close. I enjoyed a quiet blonde before retiring for the night. Regarding the Campaign manager’s request, I made my decision.
Recent Comments