OntarioHunter
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Yesterday while returning home to Ontario from bird/deer hunting at my other "home" in Montana, I drove past Leeds, ND. Leeds ... Leeds ... why should I know this place? Ah, now I remember!
Three years ago as I was hurrying back between icy storm fronts, something hit me hard the moment I crossed into North Dakota at that border casino on Hwy 2. Not sure if it was food poisoning or flu but I was very sick very fast. Of course all the coffee and Coke I was inhaling wasn't helping my touchy guts either. After struggling between truck stop latrines for several hours I finally was to the point of exhaustion and pulled off at the Leeds exit. Leeds is one of thousands of tiny isolated prairie burgs that service large farming hinterlands with nothing more than a couple of grain elevators, a small grocery store, a post office, a gas station/tire shop, and, of course, an absolutely essential public watering hole. This was Sunday morning and nothing was open "downtown" ... except, curiously, the bar. Well, that was handy! Not that I felt like imbibing, but I might feel the call of nature at any moment. Knowing a john was within reach was reassuring. I grabbed the pillow, threw it on my daypack in the passenger seat, leaned over the shifter console, and collapsed. After about twenty minutes I was suddenly awakened by that dreaded taste of salt in my mouth. Oh noooo! I threw open the door to make a dash for the bar's facilities but didn't even make it out of the seat. Barfed and barfed again, and then the obligatory several minutes of dry heaves. Oh, man! I look up to see a Buick sedan stopped in the street behind my angle parked Jimmy with Ma and Pa Kettle sitting inside all dolled up fresh from church. I didn't need to read lips to understand their conversation: "Good lord, Martha, look at that Canadian slob! Ain't even noon yet and already he's had too much to drink. Tsk, tsk!" I thought about letting Puppy out to clean up my mess ... then she could run over and clean up theirs. Instead I just waved politey and did my best to act the part of a drunk as I staggered towards the pub door.
Inside a crowd was gathered around the small flat screen TV behind the bar. A football game was on. Not surprising since it was Sunday ... but kinda early for NFL? As I made my way discreetly to the men's room, I could feel the cold gaze of the very rough looking barmaid. An anchor tattoo told me "they" had at some time in the distant past been a bartender before becoming a maid. You get the picture. In the john I alternately made rapid repeated bowl deposits from both ends. Too rapid to reach for the flush handle between episodes ... which probably contributed to both the rapidity and repetitiveness of said episodes. In the meantime the boys out in the bar seem to be cheering my groans and heaves. How embarrassing! Finally I was able to clean up ... but no hot water ... or paper towels. Dried off as best I could with toilet paper, leaving my beard cluttered with tidbits of white fuzz and barf. Ah, screw it! I'm outta here.
As I headed for the exit the barmaid shouted, "Hey, pal! The restroom is for paying customers!"
"Alright then. Make it Coors Lite. Not sure if I'll get it all down though. I'm awful sick. So, which one of you guys wants to clean up the puke in the men's toilet?" Suddenly cheering stops and the sort-of-maybe gal moves rapidly to the other end of the bar. "If you're sick ya probably better leave." Right. I glance up at the tube to see a college playoff game is on. My alma mater U of Montana vs ND State. The Fizzlies are getting beat ... 27 zip ... in the first quarter! Yeah, that didn't make me feel any better.
So I left Leeds ... with some not so fond memories for me ... and a steaming pile of goo on the street for the townsfolk. Given the location of the deposit and caliber of customers inside, I'm sure it's not an unfamiliar sight.
Three years ago as I was hurrying back between icy storm fronts, something hit me hard the moment I crossed into North Dakota at that border casino on Hwy 2. Not sure if it was food poisoning or flu but I was very sick very fast. Of course all the coffee and Coke I was inhaling wasn't helping my touchy guts either. After struggling between truck stop latrines for several hours I finally was to the point of exhaustion and pulled off at the Leeds exit. Leeds is one of thousands of tiny isolated prairie burgs that service large farming hinterlands with nothing more than a couple of grain elevators, a small grocery store, a post office, a gas station/tire shop, and, of course, an absolutely essential public watering hole. This was Sunday morning and nothing was open "downtown" ... except, curiously, the bar. Well, that was handy! Not that I felt like imbibing, but I might feel the call of nature at any moment. Knowing a john was within reach was reassuring. I grabbed the pillow, threw it on my daypack in the passenger seat, leaned over the shifter console, and collapsed. After about twenty minutes I was suddenly awakened by that dreaded taste of salt in my mouth. Oh noooo! I threw open the door to make a dash for the bar's facilities but didn't even make it out of the seat. Barfed and barfed again, and then the obligatory several minutes of dry heaves. Oh, man! I look up to see a Buick sedan stopped in the street behind my angle parked Jimmy with Ma and Pa Kettle sitting inside all dolled up fresh from church. I didn't need to read lips to understand their conversation: "Good lord, Martha, look at that Canadian slob! Ain't even noon yet and already he's had too much to drink. Tsk, tsk!" I thought about letting Puppy out to clean up my mess ... then she could run over and clean up theirs. Instead I just waved politey and did my best to act the part of a drunk as I staggered towards the pub door.
Inside a crowd was gathered around the small flat screen TV behind the bar. A football game was on. Not surprising since it was Sunday ... but kinda early for NFL? As I made my way discreetly to the men's room, I could feel the cold gaze of the very rough looking barmaid. An anchor tattoo told me "they" had at some time in the distant past been a bartender before becoming a maid. You get the picture. In the john I alternately made rapid repeated bowl deposits from both ends. Too rapid to reach for the flush handle between episodes ... which probably contributed to both the rapidity and repetitiveness of said episodes. In the meantime the boys out in the bar seem to be cheering my groans and heaves. How embarrassing! Finally I was able to clean up ... but no hot water ... or paper towels. Dried off as best I could with toilet paper, leaving my beard cluttered with tidbits of white fuzz and barf. Ah, screw it! I'm outta here.
As I headed for the exit the barmaid shouted, "Hey, pal! The restroom is for paying customers!"
"Alright then. Make it Coors Lite. Not sure if I'll get it all down though. I'm awful sick. So, which one of you guys wants to clean up the puke in the men's toilet?" Suddenly cheering stops and the sort-of-maybe gal moves rapidly to the other end of the bar. "If you're sick ya probably better leave." Right. I glance up at the tube to see a college playoff game is on. My alma mater U of Montana vs ND State. The Fizzlies are getting beat ... 27 zip ... in the first quarter! Yeah, that didn't make me feel any better.
So I left Leeds ... with some not so fond memories for me ... and a steaming pile of goo on the street for the townsfolk. Given the location of the deposit and caliber of customers inside, I'm sure it's not an unfamiliar sight.
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