Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
My friend recently took a trip to Montana, which is a lot like a regular state, only bigger and icier. Also, most of the population has antlers.
I once passed through Montana on the way to college in California. Three of us were traveling in my elderly car, with me as the designated driver. My roommate Maddie was too nervous to drive, and the bartender in the back seat was too drunk. Yeah, about that …
Maddie waitressed with Scotty, a bartender who needed a ride out West and would share expenses. As typical, broke college kids, we agreed. Maddie assured me that “Scotty is nice,” and intel like that was solid as an FBI background check.
Or so I thought.
At 9 a.m., Nice Scotty yanked a bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of his gym bag and polished it off before we hit the state line. Midway through the second bottle, his real personality came bulldozing through.
Nice Scotty had no indoor voice. He screamed about everything—from other drivers (which was usually my job) to why Pontiacs don’t have urinals. The man needed more than manners. He needed an exorcist.
The only time the car was peaceful was when he passed out. Maddie and I discussed the possibility of dumping him at a rest stop, but we couldn’t lift him. (I know this because we tried.) We poked him occasionally to make sure he wasn’t dead, just to be polite. Also, parking a corpse on campus would probably violate some rule, even in California.
When we got to Montana, Maddie and I wanted to take a detour through Yellowstone, America’s first national park. It’s not every day you get the chance to see Yogi and Bullwinkle up close, but Nice Scotty woke up and objected. Loudly.
“Big whoop. Like you idiots don’t know what a [he said a very bad word here] bear looks like,” Nice Scotty yelled. “If you’ve seen one bear, you’ve seen ’em all. Keep driving!” He had a point. We already had a grizzly in the car.
I’d driven about 2,000 miles, getting by on Twinkies and 30-minute naps. Exhausted, I pulled off a random exit as night fell and parked behind a vacant building. My passengers were already unconscious, and a few moments later, so was I.
But not for long. You know that fuzzy feeling you get when you’re desperately trying to wake up and make sense of the world? That was me looking through the windshield, trying to convince myself that Paul Bunyan wasn’t on the other side.
The hazy image crystallized into a massive man wearing a cowboy hat, flannel shirt and a leather vest. Outside Maddie’s window, there were two more and another sprawled out on my car hood. Same hats, same shirts, same vests. Cow-druplets.
I elbowed her. “Wake up. We might have a problem.” The druplets were trying to get in the car.
Maddie rubbed her eyes, counted the cowboys, and decided to scream. It was an ear-piercing scream that didn’t deter our guests, but it got Nice Scotty to bolt upright and scatter them. He could scream louder than Maddie and was much more colorful.
As we got back on the highway, Maddie fell asleep and Nice Scotty passed out. Having a grizzly in the back seat turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for which I am forever grateful.
But if I ever drive through Montana again, there will be no bartenders in my car, nice or otherwise. All bags will be searched, and wild animals will remain outside—with the exception of Yogi. And, of course, Bullwinkle.
Jan A. Igoe misses most of her crazy youth but is surprised she survived it. She hopes you’ll remain safe from bears, wherever they turn up. Join us at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.